


Nothing Ever Changes

by Zedrobber



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, F/M, OC minor character, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haymitch settles back into life in Twelve after the horrors of the Revolution, building a relationship with Effie and working to become more than he was- until the Capitol, reformed as the Headquarters and run by people supposedly on their side- decides to take the crimes of Capitol citizens into their own hands, staging one last Hunger Games after all and throwing Haymitch right back into the middle of a fight he never wanted to be in.<br/>Hayffie centric from Haymitch's POV mostly, will be fairly graphic violence in later chapters, intermittent sex throughout, and hopefully feels.<br/>[HIATUS- NOT FORGOTTEN!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Everything was different, but it was all the same.

The Districts went back to business as usual, but minus a huge swathe of the population. People relocated, shuffled around like chess pieces by the new government, which was like the old government only supposedly _better_ and yet Haymitch hadn’t exactly figured out how.

True, resources were easier to come by now; sharing between Districts was allowed, food was no longer scarce even in District Twelve and that in itself was cause for celebration- but there was still a deeply uneasy feeling in his gut, telling him that something wasn’t quite right.

 

Coin, of course, was dead; and that was probably a good thing. At first, Paylor stepped up, did some good. She was the beginning of hope for many that this could end well after all; organised a relief effort for the casualties still suffering, the hungry, and the refugees left homeless by the bombings and fires. She was generous with the Capitol’s money, the Capitol’s supplies. Some people didn’t appreciate that, and within three months, Paylor was assassinated by a lone gunman.

 

Another rebel took over, then another. They renamed the Capitol the “Headquarters”, tried to tell everyone that it wasn’t a Capitol anymore, was just a base of operations to begin the rebuilding process.

And they did rebuild- for a while. The Districts became bustling again despite the heavy losses. Even a few people from the Capitol moved across to the larger Districts, settling down to begin again. For the most part, the general populace accepted them willingly, teaching them to survive after a lifetime of coddling. A few even made their way all the way to Twelve, much to the bemusement of the remaining families there. They moved into the Victor’s Village, feeling that it was as close to home as possible, considering.

The Capitol, too, had suffered; a third or more of the population was gone, wiped out in the fighting, and the stragglers who found a home in the Districts were quiet, withdrawn, and, Haymitch couldn’t help thinking, much better neighbours than they had probably been in the Capitol. The rest stayed and continued to try and live the life they had become accustomed to.

 

Things became boring again for a time, summer passing in a warm, sleepy haze of calm and endless golden days of nothing which found Haymitch buying some geese from District Ten and spending half a week sweating and swearing as he built them a serviceable pen, scowling at Katniss who had finally begun to smile again and pretending he wasn’t keeping an eye on her and Peeta while inwardly he fretted and coaxed and finally cheered as they found their feet together and started actually _living_ instead of surviving.

The pen was fine, the geese adapted, and Haymitch drank- but less than before, his supplies lower and his need less urgent after the forced sobering he had endured in Thirteen. It had become more of a habit and less of a desperate, painful drive to swallow down the past and the nightmares; and he was fine with that, wondering if maybe he could get around to living again one of these days as he sat on his porch in the autumn and watched his damn geese fighting over bread that Peeta still supplied.

He didn’t even like geese.

 

Effie returned to the Capitol- and refused to call it the Headquarters, much to Haymitch’s amusement. She visited often, though; claiming it was to see the children and yet spending less than a quarter of her time there actually talking to Katniss and Peeta. Everyone knew it was Haymitch she was really there to see; but to their credit nobody _told_ her they knew for fear of embarrassing her, their strange, not-quite-parent who needed to be protected. They fell into an almost domestic routine, less strained and fraught with tension than it had ever been.

 

Winter rolled around, then spring again; and Effie began to relay some rather worrying news from the city. About a new President, a woman much like Coin in her intensity and focus, but charming, slick, earnest- a real people-pleaser, a warm and likeable woman who had the whole of the Capitol eating out of her hand in less than a month. Who was beginning to make changes; and not necessarily _good_ ones, according to Effie as she sat at his kitchen table, a pink china teacup perched delicately in her hands and steaming into the chilly morning air of the District. Her curled wig was gold in the sunlight, her eyes swirled in gold and green in what he supposed were supposed to be springtime colours but didn’t dare ask about for fear of actually being told. Her dress was a riot of the same. Haymitch didn’t quite tell her that it made him want to vomit, but it was a close-run thing and she had probably got the hint when he made gagging noises as she bustled in through the door.

 

“So, lemme get this straight. She’s rebuilding the Capitol-just like it was?”

“Not all of it, Haymitch,” Effie said again, impatiently. “I never thought I’d say this, but would you like a drink? You seem to actually listen _more_ when you’re intoxicated.”

“What a _fabulous_ idea.” He smiled too innocently, giving her a mocking little bow as he pulled out his hip flask and took a swallow. “Please do continue.”

Effie pulled a face, leaning across the table to slap his wrist lightly with a noise of disgust that fooled neither of them. “She’s rebuilding the stadium. The one they used for the tribute parade, you remember-“

“Yeah, I remember,” he cut her off curtly. “Why would she want to do that? There’s no more Games, not anymore.”

“Maybe as a theatre, an ice rink, an open air flower market? Look, I’m not sure, Haymitch, I’m just telling you what I was told. It’s almost as dangerous to go prying now as it was before the Revolution.”

As sarcastic as her tone was, it hid a depth of exhaustion and worry that Haymitch couldn’t possibly miss. She wasn’t looking well, her makeup barely concealing the dark rings under her eyes.

“Effie, have you been sleeping?”

“How?” she replied bitterly. “They’ve taken away all of our most fashionable sleeping pills, say they aren’t healthy or good for us. Half of the Capitol is barely sleeping anymore. I can’t close my eyes for more than a minute without remembering what happened.”

 

She didn’t need to elaborate; Haymitch knew she meant _when I was arrested in the Capitol_ because she had told him back in Thirteen. They had tortured her for information she didn’t have, and she’d barely been gotten out in time- no thanks to Plutarch, who had been supposed to get her out right away.

It was that delay, that broken promise, which had ruined Haymitch’s long-time friendship with the former Game Maker. They had barely said a word to each other when Haymitch left for Twelve, tasked with making sure Katniss didn’t kill herself and wondering how the hell to do that when he wasn’t certain _he_ was going to make it.

 

“You should sleep, then,” he said decisively, taking her cup almost gently from her trembling fingers.

“You haven’t been listening again. I. Can’t.”

“Try.”

 “Haymitch-“

“I’ll come too.”

“It’s nine thirty in the _morning,_ Haymitch.”

“My curtains are thick.” He paused. “And always closed.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s surely not - it seems so _common_ to sleep at such an hour.” She stood when he tugged on her hand, though, biting her lip and looking out of the grimy window uncertainly before turning back to him as he pulled at her. “Then let’s be common, for Christ’s sake Effie- if this is your idea of a cheap thrill I think we need to talk. I’ve seen more sunrises before bed than I care to count.”

“You are a disgusting creature,” she said, encouraged, as she started to follow him. She wrinkled her nose delicately. “I’ll bet that you saw them all through a haze of fumes, didn’t you.”

“Pretty much, sweetheart. You aren’t the only one who has trouble sleeping.”

She didn’t ask him to elaborate, and Haymitch was grateful, _really_ not wanting to have yet another conversation that started with her asking why he screamed in his sleep and ended with them screaming at each _other_ , Haymitch usually throwing a glass at the wall and leaving while Effie cried. How the hell could he tell her that it was because he’d had nightmares almost every night since he was sixteen? That it wasn’t even because of the Games themselves, nightmarish as they were, but because of everything that came _after?_

His family, murdered by Snow as a punishment to him for his stupid trick in his Arena. The Victory Tour, staring into the hollow, dead eyes of every family of every person who died in his Games, including the families of the people- the kids- that he had killed. Being forced to mentor. Every Reaping since then; every face of every tribute he’d ever gotten killed fresh in his memory forever, branded there in shame as his own self-inflicted punishment. Effie didn’t think he even remembered their names. He remembered every single one, and no amount of drinking, no amount of self-loathing disguised as sarcasm and anger could ever drown them out.

He _definitely_ didn’t want to discuss that with Effie. He preferred it if she thought he was just a stupid drunk who flailed in his sleep because he was dreaming about losing his beer.

 

“You know,” she said suddenly, sniffing and eyeing his mess of a bedroom, “I do like you better a little less drunk. You’re actually pleasant to me.”

“Miracles do happen. Get your clothes off.”

“Haymitch!”

“Relax, sweetheart. I’ve seen you naked before, I’m sure I can control myself.”

“Well, that makes a nice change,” she said, giving him a wan smile which he found almost painful to look at. “Usually you’re on me before I’ve even _got_ my clothes off. I should worry you’re finding me less attractive already.”

“I think the weight of your wig may be crushing your brain cells.” Haymitch clambered over the debris in his room to get into bed, gesturing expansively for her to join him. “C’mon. I even changed the sheets.”

“Oh, your annual laundry day must have arrived again. How thrilling.”

“Shut the hell up, get your ridiculous dress off, and get the fuck into bed.”

“You really know how to woo a girl,” she said acidly as she began to undress, Haymitch attempting to look nonchalant whilst staring surreptitiously as her creamy-pale skin began to emerge from under ruffles and lace in lurid shades of green.

 _She is beautiful._ Like he’d tell her that while sober.

“I’m not trying to woo you, Effie. That would require a hell of a lot more drink.”

“That’s just rude,” she offered, trying to find somewhere clean to put her dress down and sighing dramatically. “Haymitch Abernathy, as much as I appreciate the token gesture of washing your sheets, I would be _delighted_ if once in a while you would try to remember the colour of your carpet.”

She climbed into bed whilst attempting to preserve her modesty with the sheet, and Haymitch laughed, amused that she would still be so prim and proper when naked and in bed with him.

She hit him lightly on the arm as she slid up to his side, curling her warm, soft body against him like a cat. Her skin shimmered gently with a dusting of glitter, making her look strange and ethereal.

“Take your damn wig off,” Haymitch huffed, turning his head so he didn’t choke on it.

“No!”

“Then I will-“ he grinned, straddling her and tugging it from her head.

“Haymitch!”

He held it over his head in victory before tossing it aside. “That’s better.”

“You are a complete Neanderthal, Haymitch Abernathy,” Effie groaned, unpinning her hair grudgingly and shaking it out. It had grown in since Thirteen, Effie not bothering to keep it so short once the Revolution was over, and was wavy and almost to her shoulders, a golden blonde colour that Haymitch loved because it reminded him of wheat fields in sunlight.

“I don’t know why you hide it all the time anyway,” he grunted as he pulled his own shirt over his head, still straddling her hips. She glared at him silently until he got off her to take his trousers off, throwing them into the general chaos on his bedroom floor, and settled back down beside her.

“I do still _try_ to be fashionable, you know,” she sighed as she curled into him again. “Heaven knows it’s difficult enough these days, with half of the Capitol boutiques closed and the other half so expensive it’s hardly worth the bother, but I refuse to become like you, all muddy and - _provincial_.” Tucking her head under his chin, she sighed again, contentedly.

“Yes, you clearly hate my filthy self,” Haymitch chuckled into her hair.

“Shut up.”

 

They lay companionably for a while, Haymitch wondering at how easy this had become since the end of everything. Except the actual _talking_ about whatever it was they had, of course; that was beyond them, apparently. But the touching, the fucking- that had come so naturally once they had no appearances to keep up, no constant terror on Haymitch’s part that she would be killed simply for being something that he treasured; like his family was killed, like his girlfriend had been too. Haymitch had lived with the constant threat of everything he cared about being taken from him for so long that he had stopped caring, had retreated into his burgeoning alcoholism gladly to avoid _feeling_ anything. And then Effie had arrived, bustling into his life with the authority of the very stupid or very clever; rearranging his clothes, his hair, his schedule and eventually his heart. Even when everything was darkest, when he drank so much just to forget the face of the latest kid he’d got murdered in the Arena that he woke up in a pool of his own vomit, she was there to drag him out, to get him in public again looking at least relatively decent, and to make sure he was where he needed to be on time.

But they couldn’t say anything, do anything except steal kisses in dark corridors, and have hasty, rough sex at any moment that they could take when they weren’t being watched, for fear of repercussions that Effie herself didn’t understand.  They certainly didn’t discuss their feelings- that would have been dangerous beyond measure.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t really changed that part after Thirteen, after the war, after Snow. Nor had his nightmares stopped like he assumed they would.

 

“What are you thinking?” she asked eventually, and he lied like he always had, lied to protect her from such dark thoughts because she was golden to him and shone like the sun, and he couldn’t taint her with his bleakness.

“About how much I need a drink.”

“Ugh-“she said with a smack to his chest, “-I should be surprised, but I’m not.”

He smiled a little. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.” Her fingers on his chest started trailing patterns across his skin, and he sighed tolerantly. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m not,” she yawned. “I want you to fuck me.”

Usually just the _word_ fuck from her delicate little mouth made Haymitch hard, but today he took one look at her to see if she was serious and decided that she couldn’t be.

“Sleep,” he ordered. “I’ll fuck you later. Right now it would be as fulfilling as fucking a beanbag.”

“You had sex with many beanbags?” she said, almost mumbling now, her precise speech slipping. “I knew you’d been lonely, but _really-_ “

“Yeah, and all of them were better than you.”

“ _Rude._ ”

She chuckled into his shoulder and was asleep in ten seconds, her breath warm against his skin and her arm curled around him. He lay awake for much longer, daring to touch her gently now that she wasn’t looking, curving his fingertips around the barely visible scars she still had after her time in imprisonment in the Capitol. Those scars had made him furious, back when he had first seen them.

Now they just made him sad, and the knowledge that the people who did it to her were probably dead didn’t even help much.

He didn’t have nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late afternoon by the time Haymitch woke up, gripped with panic for a split- second when he couldn’t reach his knife until he remembered where he was and that Effie was with him.

She stirred, grumbling because he’d jolted her awake, and gave him a look of such sleepy disgust that he couldn’t help but smile, despite his heart still racing.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, completely unrepentantly.

“You will be.”

“Oh will I?”

She didn’t dignify that with an answer for the moment, stretching and yawning instead- the most ladylike yawn he’d ever seen, Haymitch thought. Finally, she sighed contentedly and turned her attention back to him, her teeth suddenly bared in a feral grin as she pushed him back and got onto him, straddling his hips and bracing her hands on his shoulders. “I believe you promised me something.”

“Did I?” he said innocently. “I honestly couldn’t recall.”

She leaned to her left, under his pillow where she had been sleeping, and came out with his knife, holding it triumphantly in front of him for a moment before carefully lowering it against his throat.

No one was allowed to touch that knife. No one but him had ever even used it. And yet there she was, naked and on top of him with his own weapon against his suddenly far too exposed neck.

 _And he was hard._ So hard that it almost hurt, his cock trapped between them. Knowingly, she shifted her hips a little, gave him just enough friction to really frustrate him. He gripped her waist, arching his neck to give her more room, and she laughed lightly, digging the blade in a little and making him swallow uncomfortably. “Effie-“ he started, but she shook her head _no_ and he stopped, hoping- _trusting-_ that she knew what she was doing. Carefully, she aligned herself with his cock and began rocking her hips against him, surely knowing she was driving him mad with want. His cock ached, feeling her wetness slick against him, the heat from her incredible.

“You did promise,” she said finally, and Haymitch was gratified to hear that she was a little breathless. “You promised to fuck me, Haymitch Abernathy, and to break a promise is incredibly-“ she paused in her rocking motions to raise herself from his hips smoothly, reaching between them to his erection, her delicate fingers barely meeting around it as she lined herself up and sank back down onto him with a breathy _ah_ that made him impossibly more aroused.

“-ill mannered,” she finished with a smug smile at his groan- fuck, she was so hot, so wet for him already as she began to ride him that he could barely concentrate to do more than grab her hips hard enough to bruise and thrust up to meet her, his teeth bared and his eyes narrow as he stared at her, watching her fuck herself on his cock with an abandon he had once thought she could never possess. Her breasts bounced with each thrust he made, her free hand clutching at his arm tightly, sharp nails digging into his skin that he barely felt, too caught up in the hot, tight slickness of her cunt as he pounded into her to register the thin trickle of blood running down to his elbow.  The other hand, still holding the knife close to  his throat, was steady despite the brutal fucking, the sharp tip _just_ shy of nicking the delicate skin under his jaw. He almost didn’t care if it did, the danger adding fuel to the already blazing fire in him, far past wondering if she knew how to handle the knife now that his cock was buried to the hilt inside her and she was fucking him mercilessly.

He felt her clench around him, heard her moans change pitch and her breath hitch in his chest, and he grinned wolfishly, letting go of her hips so that he could wrap one hand around her throat, his large hand engulfing the pale skin of her neck almost completely. The other, he snaked between them to rub at her clit, his calloused fingers rough and fast and making her shudder deliciously, her eyes half-closed and dark as she looked down at him, her thighs trembling minutely and the fingers around the knife handle beginning to shake, the point digging further into his neck and making him grunt in surprised pain even as she arched her back and came with a wordless scream, still riding his cock hard and fast and pulling him over the edge with her in an orgasm so powerful he could barely make a sound above a low, guttural snarl.

 

“Well, _what_ is society coming to when a lady has to extract a promise at knifepoint,” Effie said breathlessly a few moments later, still sprawled on Haymitch with his cock inside her. “Oh, I made you bleed.”

“So you did,” he sighed, glancing at his arm and then rubbing at his throat with an experimental gentleness. “Nothing new there. Put the knife down now, sweetheart.”

She blinked at him, and then at the knife in her hand, before replacing it under the pillow and sliding off him to curl into the crook of his arm again. “I liked that. It felt powerful. I don’t often- I mean, I never felt- was that terribly vulgar of me?”

“Shut up, Effie,” he said amicably, kissing the top of her head. “We should get up and eat something. Don’t want to waste the days you’re here.” _Because that would just make it worse when you leave again,_ he didn’t say.

“First,” she declared, wrinkling her nose, “I’m going to go and see if your hot water _actually_ works for once. I smell of you and it is _disgusting._ ”

 

\--

 

The next few days were good- _perfect, even_ Haymitch occasionally thought, glancing at her while she was drinking tea or sprawled on his sofa- after giving it a thorough clean, complaining all the while, of course. They were peaceful in a way they had never managed to be before the Revolution; quiet and less painfully awkward around each other now that there were no standards to keep up, no _appearances_ to maintain. They still fought- loudly, bitterly even- but there was no malice in it, each of them enjoying the sparring as much as the fucking.

It was perhaps not quite a relationship in name, however; neither seemed willing to go that far, vehemently ignoring the pointed looks Katniss was giving them around the dinner table and the gentle nudges Peeta tried to provide.

 _It wouldn’t be right,_ Haymitch often mused. _She wouldn’t want to stay here, and I sure as hell ain’t moving there- it’s better like this._

But that didn’t stop his stomach turning into knots on the morning she was leaving.

“Well,” she said, too brightly as Haymitch walked her to the station. “I can’t _wait_ to get back to civilisation. Showers that actually work. Food that you don’t have to kill yourself. Clothing that- “ she faltered, biting her lip, and Haymitch heard her breath hitch a little before she caught herself. He glanced her way, under his eyelashes, and saw the morning sun haloed behind her hair, casting a golden light on her shoulders and skin that made her look otherworldly. She blinked rapidly, and his heart lurched sadly in his chest to see how she was trying.

“And I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he answered, trying to help in his own way. “Going to put my feet on the table, drink whenever I want, wear what I want. Truly beautiful.”

She smiled gratefully, the expression flicking across her face and disappearing almost instantly. 

“And no doubt forget to bathe until the next time I arrive- oh, _shit-“_

“The hell?” Haymitch so rarely heard Effie swear that it pulled him up short, convinced she’d forgotten something. She looked at him guiltily. “I- I’m not going to make our next visit,” she said hesitantly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve got a business trip with work and-“

“And you waited till _now_ to tell me? Effie, for fuck’s sake-“

“I forgot-“

“You _forgot_ that I don’t get to see you again for what, three _months?_ ”

“Well we used to only see each other once a year, so I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You think I liked only seeing you once a year? It was hardly in the best of circumstances, if you recall-“

“Yes, but it’s _you_ and you don’t seem to miss me at all, so I-“

“Fine. You know what? _Fine._ Don’t bother then. I’ll be just fine.”

Effie opened her mouth to argue but the train pulled up as they were just coming to the station doors. “I have to-“

“Go on.”

He didn’t meet her eyes as she stood mutely for a moment before nodding shortly, turning on her heel and running elegantly for the train before it left without her.

He watched her go, watched her disappear into the train without looking back, and was still stood there long after it had pulled smoothly out of the station and away.


	3. Chapter 3

3

 

He drank copiously for the next week, barely even noticing the days slipping by. Bottle after bottle he downed, until the liquor ran out and he had to wait for the next train. He stayed face down in bed, his clothes stinking and his house slowly returning to the filthy state it had been before Effie. It was almost too easy to slip backwards again, Haymitch too stubborn to pick up the phone and apologise- why should he? It was _her_ fault anyway, and she should be the one crawling back to him. He didn’t eat, barely moved except to piss. He had nightmares every night, waking in a pool of sweat and shaking, screaming, and desperate for a drink. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about anything, not when Katniss came around and shouted at him, not when Peeta followed with fresh bread and a jug of cold water.

He finally moved exactly one week and two days later, the day that the train with his new delivery of alcohol was due. It was late, and the sun was already beating down on him as he waited outside the train station, its glare uncomfortable and harsh after his week in self-imposed isolation in the darkness. He squinted under it, painfully aware now of his unwashed state and the stink coming off him. His stomach had long since given up on growling at him and had quietened into silent self-mutilation, Haymitch almost _feeling_ it turning into hard knots.

Every muscle ached, his hands trembling and his throat dry as he tried to see around the corner, watching for the train that was never late and yet somehow was today.

Others were gathered, too; waiting with him though conspicuously standing clear of him. It never used to bother him, but now he just felt wretched, knowing that he could be so much more, that he could do things that these people could never comprehend. That he had helped a Revolution; helped to end the Hunger Games and probably saved half of the people standing with him. He could do so much more, as well.

 

With Effie there.

He made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat at the sentimentality, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and glaring at the dusty ground. _Where the hell is the liquor?_

The silence of the hot morning was shattered by a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and never wanted to hear ever again.

The blaring, pompous monstrosity that was the Capitol fanfare. Followed by the screens in the square- dusty, cracked and unused in almost a year- flickering into life. Haymitch turned to them in disbelief, a terrible shudder of foreboding rippling through him as the latest President, a small, olive skinned woman with huge dark eyes and a severe black bun, appeared on the screen.

“Good morning, citizens of Panem,” she began, and Haymitch’s heart raced automatically, anticipating a Reaping he knew- hoped- would not come.

“By now, you should all be aware of the changes I have made. Of the re-assignment of the Capitol to its new designation, the Headquarters. Of the re-distribution of resources and aid towards the Headquarters as we attempt to rebuild.” She smiled, and it was warm and pleasant. Haymitch’s skin crawled as he realised what it was she was not saying. “We in the Headquarters want nothing more than to help everyone in the worst affected sections of Panem. To do this, we humbly request that you all continue to send us the valuable fruits of your labours, as free Districts. We cannot continue the work we have started in rebuilding Panem as a united, liberated nation without your support. To speed up this process, the quotas we had previously introduced have been increased by one third. Each District will receive communications detailing what this means to your individual goods. We trust that you will pull together for the good of all in this difficult and exciting time.”

People around Haymitch were beginning to mutter, their faces uneasy. Haymitch couldn’t blame them; this was some serious bullshit if he was reading it correctly. He snorted and waited for the sucker punch he could almost see coming.

“As you all know,” she continued, a reassuring smile still plastered to her face, “we have been searching for a way to bring closure to all of you regarding the Capitol’s crimes and the atrocities committed in their name. Many of you were opposed to the idea of a last, final Hunger Games with Capitol children; and you were right to oppose it. Children are not at fault in this war; children who were barely alive when the Revolution began or who were not born when the traitor Coriolanus Snow committed such vile acts against the Districts. This would not be a fair way to punish the Capitol. There were enough children lost during the-“ she paused, and Haymitch grimaced, knowing what she was hesitating on, “-incident with the accidental detonation of bombs during the final skirmishes.”

 _Accidental my ass,_ he thought bitterly- after fighting tooth and nail with the people responsible afterwards, Haymitch had gotten what could only be taken as an almost-admission of guilt from several rather high-up officials in the Revolution.

“However,” she continued, now perfectly composed again, “there must _be_ a punishment for the crimes of the Capitol, and as such, we _will_ be staging a final Hunger Games-“

Haymitch didn’t hear anything she said for a long minute after that, his head reeling and his blood rushing in his ears as he staggered and almost fell. He heard the cries of people around him, dimly and as if from underwater, and it took all of his effort to refocus on the woman still speaking calmly on the screens above him. “-from the Capitol population of adults. All adults still living within the boundaries of what was the Capitol and is now the Headquarters are eligible for Reaping in this last Games. We will not be pursuing individuals living in the Districts at this time; many have integrated well and are valuable assets to their communities. The pool includes individuals who held high ranking positions within the Games organisation- these people will receive additional entries into the Reaping pool in accordance with their position and influence on the Hunger Games. We have many of these individuals in custody already.” She paused, glanced at a sheaf of papers in front of her before continuing. “We have decided that in order to keep the pool to a manageable number, the age of eligibility will be restricted to between twenty-five and sixty. This also reduces the likelihood of infirm or otherwise incapable entrants, which we deem to be inhumane. We invite as many citizens of Panem as possible to join us in the Headquarters for the Reaping in two weeks time. Further details will be given to you later today.”

 _She’s avoiding using the word Tribute, but it’s what she means all the same,_ Haymitch thought angrily. Then suddenly, his anger and - he had to admit it - relief at it not being him this time left him in one sickening lurch, the breath gone from his lungs in a gasp that felt like it had to be his last as the blood pounded through his head, one word reeling through his mind over and over.

_Effie._


	4. Chapter 4

 

The trains arrived as soon as the screens shut off, and Haymitch staggered home laden with liquor that he’d started to drink before he’d even left the station. The rest of the day was a blur as he drank himself into a stupor that sadly stopped just short of unconsciousness, as hard as he tried.  The tears wouldn’t come either; he could feel the heat of them welling up behind his eyes but just couldn’t make them fall. It was easy to let despair slip back between the cracks in his armour again, after fighting it for so long now.

By the late afternoon, Haymitch was so far on his way to unconscious that he barely heard the fanfare of the Capitol blaring through the house. It was only as the President started speaking that he managed to drag himself through into the next room to stare, blearily, at the screen.

“-Precisely two weeks from now, Wednesday, punctually at nine am, there will be trains arriving in each District to transport all District citizens who wish to participate. We encourage as many of you as possible to come; after all, the Capitol enjoyed watching our children die for their amusement and many of you will have lost family members to their barbarism. You will be given temporary hand tattoos designating you as an audience member, and shown to your seat in our newly rebuilt stadium in time to watch the Reaping. Following the Reaping, there will be complimentary drinks before your transport home.”

There was more, but Haymitch heard none of it, sinking to his knees in front of the screen and vomiting before finally, blissfully passing out.

 

When he awoke, it was dark and he was sticky. He couldn’t bring himself to care, lying on the floor for a long while and wondering if he was going to pass out again. Finally though, he heard a small voice in his head- _Haymitch Abernathy, you are disgusting. Bathe. Now!_

He smiled a little, and raised his head- immediately regretting the decision as his head pounded and the room swam dizzily around him. Inch by painful inch, he raised himself onto all fours, and then to his feet, swaying dangerously.

 _Okay._ He tried to ignore the pain in his temples, lurching over to the sink and drinking copious amounts of water until he thought he might burst, before dipping his head under the freezing tap and dousing his head with a pained gasp.

When he was relatively clean and soaked through, he sat at his kitchen table with his head in his hands, watching the water droplets splatter onto the stained wood from his hair and picking listlessly at a loaf of bread Peeta had left him.

 _Effie might not even be picked._ That was a real possibility- there were thousands of people living in the Capitol still, and she was only one of them.

But what if she had her name in more than once? She had worked for the Games for years, had willingly done her job. Did they consider her to be sufficiently high ranking to warrant more entries?

He wondered what was happening there right now. If they had been told, if they had been rounded up yet to avoid the inevitable escape attempts that would follow in the next few weeks. _She must be so scared._

It was that thought more than anything else that galvanised him. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fall apart and allow the drink to take over again, not this time. He’d done more than enough of that when he was supposed to be helping his Tributes- and every single one had died, right up until Katniss and Peeta. He owed it to Effie to try and help if he could.

 _Two weeks_ , he mused. _Two weeks to decide what I should do._

He ripped off a piece of bread and began to chew it thoughtfully.

 

\--

 

In the end, he didn’t do much- he couldn’t- because the Headquarters had all of the potential Tributes locked away with no contact with the outside world. He tried repeatedly to call her, but got nothing except a flat recorded message saying she was unavailable. He tried taking the train to her, but was refused entry to the holding areas. Eventually, he came back to the District, defeated, and wondered whether he should go with the trains for the spectators. The thought of a huge crowd of people- his people, District people- baying for the blood of probably innocent lives made him sick to his stomach; he didn’t want to be there with a force so strong it was almost physical.

But it had been Effie who had pulled him out of his alcoholic stupor long enough to help Katniss and Peeta; it had been her who’d been tortured for the Revolution despite knowing nothing, and who had taken it silently and stoically; her who had begun to rebuild Haymitch’s trust in people and her who had never given up on him.

 _Fuck it-_ he had to go. He owed her that much. Katniss wasn’t going; technically she wasn’t allowed to, for her own health they said- and Peeta would stay by her side, so it was up to him to show face and comfort her when she wasn’t Reaped, maybe convince her to come home with him.

He didn’t sleep easily the night before the Reaping, and not even a bottle could help.


	5. Chapter 5

The day came far too quickly, and he was sickened once again as he stood on the platform beside hundreds of jostling, laughing people, his breath steaming in the crisp morning air. He was grateful for the fact that it was hundreds, not _thousands-_ District Twelve was probably putting on a poor show compared to the rest of Panem, he was sure- but the mass of people all grinning and excited mirrored the Capitol far too much for his taste. He remembered every year, every Reaping; remembered the peacock-bright crowds amassing on the sides of the Capitol stations, remembered the cheers and the delighted laughs as they caught sight of the Tributes, remembered the bright eyed, open mouthed stares of Capitol citizens as they walked through them to their apartments. He remembered everything, far too well. He could taste bile in his throat and wished desperately for a drink.

He had only remembered to bathe the night before because he caught sight of himself in a mirror gand realised he looked worse than he had after his Games. That thought had been sobering enough to convince him that getting drunk wouldn’t help today.

 

The trains arrived right on schedule.  He got on silently, ignoring people who said hello or asked how he was- they’d ignored him easily enough before the Revolution, he was sure they could manage again. He sat by himself and pointedly put his feet up on the chair next to him, closing his eyes.

Thankfully, he was still unpopular enough to be left alone, and so he spent the journey undisturbed, not even bothering to move to a sleeping cabin overnight. Not like he’d have slept better in one anyway, but he could understand the rest of the District’s enthusiasm and curiosity at the ridiculously soft beds, the chandeliers, the plush carpeting- after all, he’d done it all for the first time once. Didn’t mean he liked them any better for it. So instead he brought a bottle of whiskey- good whiskey, the type he always missed in the Districts- to his seat, and cradled it in his arms through the night, hearing the tinkling of the chandeliers, the subtle shifting of the ice in the buckets as they turned corners, and muffled conversations through the walls of the other carriages. He’d hoped never to hear these sounds again; had thought he was finally free of the Games, of the horror and the blood and the memories that still woke him screaming at night. Had actually started to feel safe, these last few months.

_Should have known better._

 

\--

 

The train pulled in the next day, on schedule, of course. _Effie would be proud,_ Haymitch thought with an almost smile. They were herded through barriers and between guards- guards who looked uneasily like Peacekeepers to Haymitch- and into a large, airy building.

 _This used to be the apartments_. There were tables spread with enough food for everyone- and there were _hundreds_ here. He took a long look around and decided that they had to all be spread across the different floors, in order for them to fit; there was no way everyone could be in this one room. He wandered to the tables out of habit, still so used to being hungry that he was instantly in scavenge mode despite knowing he felt too sick and tired to even eat a bite.

Everything looked and smelled glorious, though; colourful fruit jellies, giant joints of steaming meats in honeyed glazes, tiny, delicate biscuits and cakes, barely more than a morsel, platters piled high with chickens and vegetables and fish in elegant sauces- Effie would have been delighted, and even Katniss couldn’t have resisted that stew she loved so much. He moved around slowly, talking to no one and trying to ignore how the crowds of people stuffed their faces like savage animals, food spraying from their mouths as they talked excitedly.

He wondered if Effie was even eating today, or if they’d been shoved into cells like prisoners. _Surely they wouldn’t treat them that badly._

He wasn’t sure enough to be reassured.

After an hour, possibly more, a fanfare blared and in the silence that followed, a short announcement was made that they would soon be escorted to the arena to take their places.

 _Escorted, right,_ he thought as he watched the not-peacekeepers file into the room. He stood from the chair in the corner where he’d slouched and waited to be herded like cattle again. He wasn’t disappointed. They were filed out into the courtyard and packed into another set of trains- more functional and less opulent than the last, but still far beyond anything most of the people here were used to.  The journey lasted only minutes this time before they were being guided out to the platform and Haymitch saw the new, rebuilt stadium for the first time.

If anything, it was _bigger_ than the last; towering over them as they were moved by unsmiling guards into rows and given temporary tattoos denoting their seating arrangements. Haymitch was _B-46-1999-D_ which meant nothing to him.

He was pushed into a doorway marked B and sent through curtly, getting his first glimpse inside the stadium. It was almost exactly as he recalled it; white stone and open space for the chariots, the circle, the podium- the only difference was that the banners no longer bore the Capitol’s symbol and instead had the now familiar white Mockingjay on a black background. He was shown to his seat- apparently it meant he was seated around the circle and near the ground- which meant he wouldn’t see the crowd of potential tributes filing out towards them but should be able to pick out Effie once they gathered in the circle. Hopefully he could give her a nod or something.

He sat nervously, wishing for a drink and glancing around him as the stadium began to fill up. Some of these people he recognised; they had fought alongside him in the Revolution. They had hard faces, grim sets to their jaws, and they looked ready for vengeance. Haymitch knew some of them had lost children, husbands, parents- had lost everything they loved- but he couldn’t forgive them for doing this, for the bloodthirsty gleam in their eyes or for the low mutters he could hear around him demanding justice, demanding blood. He shook his head and turned away, fixing his gaze onto the white sand in the middle of the circle and ignoring them as though they were flies.

 _Shouldn’t be here,_ he thought. _Shouldn’t have come, promised never again-_ he took a shuddering breath and swallowed, his throat dry as the sand. The smells were the worst part; he remembered the smell of everything as though it had been yesterday. The sand, the stone, the bleached, pine-smell of the chair he was sat uncomfortably in. The crowd, the conversation buzzing around him, no different to the Capitol chatter he had been forced to listen to year after year. He imagined that if he turned around there would just be a sea of people dressed in all their peacock finery.

It felt like an age before the crowd began to settle, the conversations dying to a low murmur, and Haymitch dared to breathe and look up to watch the screens blare into life with that infernal fanfare.

 

“Welcome, citizens,” came the calm, measured voice that Haymitch was starting to loathe. Her face was relaxed, her dark eyes warm and friendly. Looking to the podium, he could see her; dressed in plain green military garb, her hair still in that severe bun, she looked as though she was giving a routine speech about food rationing, not about to send twenty four people to their death.

“I am President Rowan Weathers. As you know, we are here today to witness a historic event, a final act of justice for our thousands of fallen men, women and children. The Capitol took our children. They took them, and they sent them out to die by the hundreds, with little training, little hope, and no dignity. They severed families, they destroyed homes, and they tried to destroy _us_! But they did not succeed- they did _not_ break our spirit, and we will give them a small taste of what it is they have done.”

Haymitch almost expected a nice propaganda film about the Revolution to start playing above her head, so rousing was her speech. Thankfully, though, they restrained themselves.

The crowd looked rapt; they were silent and attentive, and Haymitch despaired to see the love and adoration this woman inspired.  _This could be incredibly bad._

“And so,” Weathers was saying, “With that, I introduce to you our potential candidates- look hard, District citizens. Look each of them in the eye. Many of them designed the traps and mutts that killed our children. Some designed weaponry, some trained them to kill, and some helped to design the Arenas. Some would argue that all they did was make our children look pretty for the slaughter. All are Capitol citizens, and all are guilty of atrocities in our eyes.”

It was a neat introduction, and the doors far down the end of the stadium opened. Haymitch watched the screens as a mass of people spilled out into the daylight, confused and awkward. They were dressed in a rag-tag assembly of clothes- some in full Capitol finery, wigs and peacock-bright colours; others more conservatively. The worse were the people still in night-clothes- pyjamas, nightgowns, dressing gowns and slippers. Had they been taken straight from their beds without the chance to dress? Haymitch didn’t doubt it for a moment. He couldn’t make out Effie on the screens in the mass of shuffling people being herded towards the circle, so he had to sit, waiting in agony, for the slow procession to reach him. All around, the District citizens were behaving exactly as he had feared; sneers, shouts of derision and mockery, some people even throwing stones into the crowd. Haymitch saw one woman stagger, her features unclear on the screen, as someone aimed a chunk of wood ripped from the seats at her head. The sound of booing, hissing people overwhelmed him, the screams of enraged District people he had once trusted washing over him like a terrible, engulfing fire. All he could see were mouths open in snarls of hate, eyes dark with fury, from men, women, and even the children who had been allowed to witness this. He lowered his eyes to his own hands, trying to still the shaking of his fingers, and took in a breath while he attempted not to remember his own presentation to the Capitol crowd.

They, at least, had been cheering- the difference a small comfort in his own Games but a comfort nonetheless- but he had been terrified, disgusted beyond belief at these people who would want him dead. He remembered being unable to understand why it was they cheered for them, and being told that he was a symbol, but of what he never did know as a boy. He had been sullen, curt to Caesar Flickerman, and the crowd had loved him still. Nothing he did would stop the maddening cheering, the shouts for him to smile, to look at them, to take a photo with him; not even his victory and subsequent attempt to fall into insignificance.

It had worked right until the point at which Snow had murdered the only family he had. After that it was endless attention, endless speculation as to why he never appeared outside of the mandatory Tours and Reapings. Drowning himself in alcohol had seemed the most logical way of being ignored and managed to do double duty in suppressing his horror at everything the world was and everything he had become. It only became an addiction when he remembered he would have to go through this with two more children every year.

 

They were close now; he could hear the guards ordering them on, could hear some of the people sobbing and pleading. They knew more than any District child ever had what was about to happen to them, and they were scared. Haymitch could hardly blame them. As they moved closer the faces started to become visible- tear-streaked make up and wide, scared eyes on almost everyone. He hardened his heart against pity for people who after all, had been willing audiences to the Games.

It was only Effie he was looking for. His eyes swept over the faces on his screen again, but still she wasn’t visible. _Maybe she got away,_ he thought desperately, squinting at the crowd approaching the circle. _Would be just like her to sneak out while all hell breaks loose._

It seemed like forever before the group assembled in the circle, moved and nudged and shoved around by the guards to be able to accommodate everyone. Even then many were still stood in the approach, unable to fit. They looked dazed, for the most part; several people looked as though they had concussion, a few were actively bleeding. Haymitch swore under his breath as he leaned forward, sifting through each person individually to find her.

“Capitol citizens,” Weathers began after silence fell. Her voice was no longer warm- it was steel, flint, cold and sharp and dangerous. “You are here because the Capitol committed crimes against humanity- abhorrent acts of violence towards children each year under the guise of entertainment for your masses. Your government lied to you, but you willingly watched and cheered as children as young as twelve died. You also stood by during the Revolution, refusing to side with justice even then in the midst of massacre.” She paused, and Haymitch finally saw Effie, to the right of the crowd and furthest from him. She stood tall and straight and proud, with her usual blonde and gold wig and gold make up, but wearing a dressing gown. _The bastards._ Her arms were folded tight across her chest and she looked neither left nor right, her expression grim but calm.

 _I almost forgot that she’s been tortured once for the Revolution,_ Haymitch thought with a pained grimace. _This is hardly new to her._

Still, he couldn’t wait till this was over and he could go to her, apologise for being a complete dick, and take her home with him for good regardless of the inevitable arguments that would cause. _You know it’s bad when you’re looking forward to apologising,_ he thought wryly.

“One final, small amendment to the rules of the original Hunger Games,” the president continued. “As always, volunteers are to be allowed. However, only a District person may volunteer for a Capitol citizen. This-“ she had to stop as the entire audience erupted into jeers and howls of laughter. “This,” she managed once the initial shrieks subsided, “is to ensure that the Capitol understands that although mercy may be shown, a people once oppressed and now free are unlikely to extend it. Are any of you willing to extend the mercy the Capitol withheld all these years?” The crowd roared with screams of “ _NO! NEVER!”,_ the audience almost beside itself in a frenzy of bloodlust. Haymitch sat frozen, bile in his throat and his stomach roiling. _Well,_ he thought bitterly, _if the worst happens, you can limp off home a coward and leave her to their mercy. You can’t go back in that arena, and you know it, Abernathy._

 _“_ And so, without further preamble, I will now announce the thirty citizens who will participate in the final Hunger Games.” She paused for what was clearly meant to be a hilarious joke. “As always, ladies first.”

_Thirty? Fucking hell- still, there are so many there, at least a thousand. It will be fine._


	6. Chapter 6

 

6

 

The crowd went silent; stopping in their hooting and jeering long enough for an uncomfortable quiet to take hold. Haymitch could hear someone crying in the crowd.

“Messalina Silverstone.”

Haymitch’s heart made a horrid jerk in his chest. _Not her. Not her, it’s alright._

A small, thin woman came out of the crowd as though sleepwalking. Her makeup was streaked and bright; running in painted lines down her face. She shuffled towards the centre of the circle and stopped where a guard told her.

“Titus Pennchild.”

This was a tall man, broad of shoulder, in a silver suit jacket and trousers and a bright pink tie. His hair was pink as well, and slicked back. From this close, Haymitch could see that the jacket was streaked with dirt, and his face was pale and wan.

More names, more faces Haymitch didn’t know and didn’t wish to. Still, Effie was safe, her head proud and her eyes straight ahead.

 

Now there were thirteen people in front of the podium, seven women and six men.

“Augustus Delaine.”

A short man, instantly forgettable in plain grey shirt and trousers, and therefore interesting to Haymitch. He looked like a businessman; perhaps some low level employee of the Games themselves? He walked briskly to his place, not looking around.

_Sixteen to go._

Haymitch tuned out again. More people threaded their way through the throng, some weeping, some still. All looked shocked and pale. The audience was beginning to lose patience, their silence slipping into low mutters and laughter, and the crowd of potential tributes was fidgeting, glancing up in fear like cattle led to slaughter. Haymitch knew two, perhaps three of them. One had worked with Plutarch, one was a stylist who Haymitch had met while speaking to Cinna. Thankfully, Cinna wasn’t here to witness this atrocity. Death was a better alternative, as far as Haymitch was concerned right now.

 _At least they know what it’s like now,_ Haymitch thought briefly before stopping himself with a savage shake of his head. _Don’t think like that. Effie was like them once._

Now twenty six people were stood in a line. Haymitch cast an uninterested eye over them, waiting for this to be over already so he could get a drink.

“Effie Trinket.”

Haymitch almost didn’t hear the name over the sudden intake of breath the crowd took at hearing a name they finally all knew. A few of the people from his own District looked at him with varying shades of pity or disgust, or worse, thinly veiled triumph. His stomach dropped, his heart stuttering in his chest for a long moment as he finally understood.

 _Well, that’s that, then,_ he thought bleakly even as his body moved to stand on autopilot, his mouth opening without him being more than vaguely aware of it.

_“Wait-“_

They couldn’t hear him. It was going to be too late. He shoved at people in front of him, barrelling through the masses without acknowledging them or apologising. Everything had gone slow-moving and grey at the edges, his blood pounding in his temples so hard he thought he might pass out. He screamed, his lungs protesting at the force. “WAIT!”

One more row. He stood on a man’s shoulder, ignoring the howl of pain and the _snap_ of his collarbone, and lurched forward over the stone wall separating him from the circle, stumbling and staggering into the white sanded ring.

“Wait-“ he panted again, gasping. Wheeling around wildly, he saw Effie walking towards the line of Tributes; saw her staring at him in shock, stuttering in her steps, her eyes wide and her mouth open in almost comical surprise. He couldn’t understand what she was saying over the roar in his head and the noise of the crowd, but it didn’t matter. He threw himself towards her, in front of her; shielding her with his body from the circle, from that damned President, holding her back with one hand and reaching out with the other to the podium and the guards approaching him. _I did this once before to save a girl,_ his mind supplied. But that had been Katniss, and he had been reasonably sure he would walk away from it alive. This? Not even close.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

The words came steadily enough, despite his heaving breath and the grey spots at the edge of his vision. The sun seemed too bright, was blinding him even with his eyes narrowed against it. _Should have eaten something, I’m going to faint-_

Effie was saying something behind him, whispering urgently into his ear and trying to move him, but it was to no avail, Haymitch stubborn and solid as rock now that he was here.

 _I thought you were supposed to be a coward,_ he accused himself, almost amused at his traitorous body. _But it’s done now._

He dared a glance back at Effie, smiling briefly at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way but suspected was more a grimace. She shook her head, trembling and sorrowful, one hand squeezing his shoulder so tight it would have hurt if he hadn’t been numb all over. She looked tired, worn; her make-up was hurried and minimal for her, her wig slightly off-centre.

The noise from the crowd began to seep back through the pounding in his ears. He wished it hadn’t, the roars and shouts even louder here in the middle of everything.

“You volunteer for this Capitol woman?” The President was asking, her hand raised for silence from the crowd.

She looked confused, apprehensive. _Good_ , Haymitch thought manically. _Good, let the bitch sweat._

“Yes,” was all he said, wincing slightly as the feeling began to rush back into his body in a long, painful wash of pins and needles. He strained to stop himself shaking, lifting his chin and staring at the President as defiantly as he could. “Is that a problem?”

 _There it is,_ he thought triumphantly, as she glanced across at the officials on the podium next to her.

 _That’s got her worried. Bet she didn’t even think this could happen._ Despite the exhaustion and terror he was feeling, knowing he had made life difficult for her was somehow worth it. Effie was still clutching at his shoulder hard, and he could feel her trembling behind him. “Don’t, you stupid man,” she was hissing to him, shaking his shoulder a little. “Stop this. You can’t- you can’t-“ she began to sob silently, but Haymitch didn’t dare turn around to comfort her.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he said quietly to her without moving his eyes from the President. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

 

After a brief consultation with her officials, the President spoke again. “Very well. Haymitch Abernathy, take your place with the others. Effie Trinket…return to the group.” She looked reluctant, unhappy to lose the one semi-famous Capitol citizen so far.

 _Of course she knows my name,_ Haymitch thought with a snort of amusement. _Everyone in this damned place knows me._

“Let go, Effie,” he muttered as he tried to step forward. “Come on now sweetheart. I’ll see you before the Games, I promise.”

She looked at him wide-eyed and scared. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t let you. Go on now.” Gently, he prised her fingers from him and moved forward to stand with the other Tributes, not looking back and hoping she would have the sense to follow suit.

He didn’t bother glancing at the others; he was going to have to kill them eventually if he wanted to get home, so looking into their faces wasn’t top priority. He didn’t hear the last names called, too busy staring at the sand in front of him and trying to not faint.

  _I am so royally fucked,_ he thought bleakly. _How does this keep happening to me._

The last Tribute stepped up, the President announcing them as the “competitors” of this final, glorious Hunger Games. As if on cue, the crowd went wild, screaming themselves hoarse and stamping their feet on the stone steps until the noise echoed around the stadium like thunderous hooves.

They were led from the stadium in single file by the guards. No one spoke. A few cried, while others walked in stony, stubborn silence with their heads high. Haymitch counted flagstones to stop himself from shaking too much to walk.

_Wonder if I’ll get to keep that promise. Wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Never even told her I- shut the fuck up, Haymitch. That isn’t helpful. God, I need a drink._

The Tribute’s Apartment was still intact, and they were each assigned a floor. Haymitch only had to share with one other person, that drab little businessman he’d noticed earlier. The bottom six floors weren’t so lucky, being assigned three to a floor to accommodate everyone. With a twisted irony, he had been given District Twelve’s apartment, a place he had hoped to never see again. He remembered everything; the layout, the sofas, that huge table, far too big for two people. He didn’t look forward to having meals on that thing. Everything looked in need of a good clean, having clearly been neglected since the last Games. _The last person to use this table might have been Effie,_ he thought with a painful jolt. He traced his fingers through the dust, leaving lines like roads behind him.

 _Fuck, I’m hungry,_ he was reminded as his stomach growled suddenly. _At least the food here is good._

He couldn’t really believe he was thinking about dinner in the face of his imminent death, but then again, what else was there to occupy his mind?

The food, when it came, was lukewarm and sloppily prepared, nothing like the extravagant fare of the Capitol. Haymitch stared at his plate in mild horror for about a minute before wolfing it down anyway. Thick, chunky stew with questionable meat and a hunk of day old bread, an apple and some oatcakes, and a bottle of water. They did bring a bottle of whiskey as well; not good whiskey, but alcoholic nonetheless. Haymitch took that for himself, ignoring the longing glances from business guy. Haymitch was making a real effort to not retain his name.

He finished his dinner within minutes, remembering too many years of starvation in the District to let food go to waste. Business guy hadn’t even touched his, so Haymitch ate that as well, licking the bowl clean for good measure and then retreating to his bedroom without saying a word.

The beds, at least, had been cleaned; the sheets soft and cool despite being a decidedly awful shade of pink.

He nursed his bottle through the night, mercifully passing out just before dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, he was woken up unceremoniously by a loud announcement through the apartments, informing him that the competitors were to be ready promptly at nine am in order to be taken for prep.

 _Oh God, I haven’t missed that._ He threw on the fresh clothes from his wardrobe- a very boring white shirt and black pants; apparently Capitol fashion didn’t extend to Tributes. Sorry, _competitors._

He was just about as ready as he could be when the door opened and an official looking woman in a grey jumpsuit entered with a clipboard. Business guy looked creased and crumpled and wan. Haymitch didn’t bother saying hello.

“Good morning Mr. Abernathy. Mr. Delaine. I trust you had a restful sleep.” It wasn’t a question, so Haymitch didn’t reply, staring her in the eye until she had to drop her gaze to the clipboard, flustered.

“We have a tight schedule today, so-“ she continued, but all Haymitch could hear was Effie’s voice, that same phrase coming from her so many times over the years that he had internalised it.

“-And so now we’ll go and meet your escorts and take you to prep!” she finished, and Haymitch blinked suddenly. “Escorts?”

“Yes!” She smiled brightly and turned to lead them out to the lift. He followed in a daze, wondering who the hell they’d managed to coerce into _that_ particular job.

He shouldn’t have wondered. It was all too obvious as soon as they exited the lift and turned down the corridor that led to the prep rooms.

“Effie?” It slipped out before he could stop himself, staggering slightly. Effie looked as she had done before the Revolution; wig high and purple, make up flawless and so heavy that she looked made of porcelain, her dress purple and gold and white, shining in the fluorescent lights.

She shook her head _no_ at him, just once, and he saw under her mask in a moment of clarity, saw the bags hidden under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and pretended he didn’t see. The woman handed them over to Effie and the other escort- Haymitch realised now that business guy, _Delaine, damn it_ , knew his escort too and was staring at him in undignified horror, tears streaming down his cheeks. Haymitch wondered at them being given separate escorts rather than one per apartment, but his mind quickly supplied him with _because they want to humiliate as many people as possible._

Finally, their guide left them, and Effie and the male escort peeled off from each other to do their job separately.

“Effie-“ he started, but she gave him a glare. He shut his mouth and dealt with the prep team pulling and pushing and shaving and washing him until his scalp ached and his skin felt raw and pink. He was washed in sweet-smelling gels and moisturised until he thought he might slip off the end of the table, his hair trimmed and brushed and preened until it shone like gold in his usual not-quite-shoulder length style. _Take it they want everyone to recognise me then._

Eventually, they declared him as good as they could manage, staring wistfully at him and sighing in a disappointed way that made him snarl at them. Effie dismissed them and led him out to the courtyards, never speaking until they were outside and sat on a low stone bench, away from possible prying eyes.

“Effie-“ he tried again, desperate. “What did they do to you, sweetheart?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing, her bottom lip trembling slightly before she managed to pull herself together, back into the Effie he remembered from years ago. “I was chosen to be your Escort,” she said carefully, not making eye contact. _So they threatened her, then. Punishment for both of us._ “The escorts this year were chosen from the Reaping pool; more efficient, they said, a better show. Of course, they must be right, I mean-“ she faltered, looking so young that it pained Haymitch’s heart. “They know what-“

“Effie, the Capitol knows fuck all. They’ve fucked you over, again and again, and here we are back where we started, except even more _fucked_ than the last time.” He had to stop himself, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she said quietly in a voice that said _I’m not._ “We can’t,” she gestured minutely around them, expressive as ever. “Not here. They might see.”

He nodded. _Damned if I’ll give them an excuse to make this worse for her._ He pushed the hand that wanted to reach out to touch her into his pocket, smiling at her instead and receiving a grateful look before she was all business again, visibly pulling herself together.

“Right,” she said in her clipped, _let’s get on with this_ voice. “We have a lot to do this morning; you have a meeting with the stylist after breakfast, and then a run through of the interviews, and then later today your training begins, so remember to eat up at lunch!” Haymitch let her do her thing, knowing that the fake-bright smile and the obnoxiously happy running commentary helped to calm her and keep her going.

He followed her to breakfast in a daze; her scent was the same as ever, trailing in her wake like an almost visible pink cloud. He’d missed it more than he could have imagined, considering how long he’d gone without her between Hunger Games in the past. She walked a little strangely in her heels; he suspected an injury, not that he could have asked. Still, breakfast went without a hitch, the food much better this morning although still not really Capitol fare; thick, creamy porridge with fruit, yoghurts, plates of sliced melon, and much to Haymitch’s delight, lots and lots of coffee.

 

He didn’t get a chance to talk to Effie properly again until they were waiting to be shown into the stylist’s studio, and even then Haymitch couldn’t find the right words, all conversation seeming to fall into the black hole that was his impending death hovering between them. Effie could barely look at him, and Haymitch swung wildly between feeling angry at her and berating himself for his selfishness.

It was Effie who spoke, finally. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”

It was one of the first genuine apologies Haymitch recalled her ever making, and the simplicity of it made his chest ache.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have-“

“You expect me to just sit around in the District with no idea what was happening to you?”

“But when I left- you- we fought-“

“And I’m sure we’ll fight again before this bullshit is through. Sweetheart, one fight in a long line of fights doesn’t stop me from-“ _from what, Haymitch. Caring? Loving you? Stop right now._

She smiled, a thin, tired smile that looked wrong on her flawlessly made up face. “Why did you volunteer?”

He shrugged, too carelessly. There was no way to answer that without a long, messy conversation. “As if you’d survive in those heels,” he said instead, giving her a sideways glance and a smirk. “You’d break a nail and go screaming into the woods.”

“I would _not_ be wearing these heels in the arena,” she said, tutting. “These are _designer,_ not that you would have any idea about that.” She gave him a warm look though, knowing he was teasing and grateful for it. “What are you going to do, get horrendously drunk and belch your fumes into their faces?” She paused for effect, pretending to think. “Actually, that would be a good idea. Nothing could survive that. They’d have to condemn the place.”

Haymitch managed to huff out a laugh.

“But,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his arm, “Thank you. But I wish you hadn’t- I wish there was another way to-“

“There ain’t,” he said shortly, risking covering her hand with his briefly and squeezing. “There was no other choice, Effie. Not when it was you. Now stop it, sweetheart, before someone hears you.”

She blinked back tears, nodding fiercely and returning to Escort Effie mode as their stylist opened his doors and ushered them in, bellowing about Haymitch’s outfits for the interviews and promotional photoshoot.


	8. Chapter 8

Three hours and at least thirty outfits later, Haymitch and Effie finally escaped the stylist. Effie looked as though all she’d done today was flounce around airily in pretty dresses, which is precisely what she’d done.

Haymitch looked- and felt- as though he’d been run over repeatedly by a large, angry truck driver.

However, their outfits were picked; matching, to Effie’s amusement and Haymitch’s vocal disgust, with her in a foamy green and blue dress that had lace practically everywhere and a million underskirt layers. It was highlighted- and Haymitch used that word sarcastically- with tiny onyx beads no doubt meant to reflect the coal from District Twelve. Haymitch had managed to get away with a relatively nice suit; black with a few onyx accents, a greenish-blue cravat and waistcoat, and thankfully no lace. He felt he’d come out of it better than Effie.

Her buoyant mood deflated as soon as they were out of sight of the stylist, her whole body seeming to shrink as she let out a long, deep breath.

“That was horrible.”

“I thought you loved trying on outfits.”

She gave him a sharp look edged with betrayal. “Haymitch, do not think that I find some pleasure in this.”

He opened his mouth to reply when they were accosted by a harried looking woman in full Capitol makeup. “You’re _late!_ ” she exclaimed as though it were a bad word. “Caesar is _waiting!”_

They were pushed and pulled into the studio, dusted with makeup and shoved out onto the blindingly bright lights of the stage before they had time to finish speaking. Haymitch immediately felt his stomach lurch, a sickening roll that made him stagger into Effie. She took his arm calmly, saying nothing and leading him forward as he struggled to cope with the horrific feeling of dread. _The last time I was on here I’d won,_ he thought. _I’d killed people and survived and was going home._ The thought of going back again, of doing all of this over, was like a nightmare.

“I can’t,” he whispered to Effie, trying to stop, to dig his heels in. She dragged him onwards inexorably. “You must,” she hissed without moving her lips. “They’re watching.” She put on her sunniest smile to draw attention to herself and seated them both beside Caesar with a giggle. “I’m so sorry, my dear- we were _so_ caught up in outfits, you know how it can be-“

“Of course, my dear Miss Trinket,” he beamed, that smile practically dazzling Haymitch. His stomach roiled again at that oily grin, and he leaned back in his seat, trying to pretend that he wasn’t about to pass out. The host was wearing a lime green suit sequinned to the brink of death, and his hair was following the trend. It made Haymitch feel even worse.

“Now, shall we run through the interview process? I know you’re very familiar with it, of course…”

Haymitch tuned out, staring instead at a spot of lint on the otherwise gleaming floor and allowing Effie to take control of the conversation until his stomach stopped protesting and he felt less dizzy.

_If this is what I’m like now, how am I going to manage in the interview?_

Eventually, he realised that he was being asked a question, the room silent and expectant. He took a breath. “What?”

Caesar laughed; the noise too loud and so fake that Haymitch’s lip twitched in an involuntary sneer before he caught himself.

_Play nice, Haymitch. Effie will be punished for every slip up you make, you can guarantee it._

“I was saying, Haymitch, that I assume you will be your usual charming self for the interview?”

“I’m not going to be drunk, if that’s what you’re implying, Flickerman.” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice, but that didn’t stop Caesar’s smile.

“Excellent,” he continued as if nothing would please him more. “We might get some actual conversation from you!” He laughed again and Haymitch clenched his jaw. Effie tittered lamely alongside him.

“And of course,” Caesar finished as they all stood and shook hands, “I’m sure everyone will be _dying_ to hear about you two. Lovebirds from opposite worlds. So romantic.” He waved them off as Haymitch turned a sickly white-green colour.

“They know?”

“Of course. You _volunteered_ for me, Haymitch. They did some digging.”

“Oh, Christ. Why is he even working for them?”

“He has a family too,” Effie replied quietly, not meeting his eyes. _Ah, fuck. That explains everything. I need a drink._

“Is it lunch time?”

“Yes, but you’re not drinking,” she said as though reading his mind. “Training later, remember?”

“I hate your schedule.”

“Well!” she replied in her best Capitol voice, sounding genuinely affronted. “I do believe that can’t be helped! Come along!”

He shook his head and allowed himself a small smile as he trailed after her. _This is all for her. Remember that and you can get through the training, the interviews, hell, even the repetition of the worst parts of your life on display for these ghouls to ogle._

Lunch was a sad affair; the food was delicious, but Haymitch was consumed by his thoughts and Effie was unusually silent, picking at her food listlessly. He thought again and again of things he could say; witty remarks or stupid jokes, but they all seemed just inappropriate in the face of the Games.

He stole glances at her, oblivious to the fact that she was doing the same when he wasn’t looking.

She still looked tired, pale; her wig was slightly askew, her makeup beginning to flake, and her smile faltering every time she looked at him properly, her eyes sorrowful.

 _How do I do this,_ he thought repeatedly. _How can I go in there again?_

He needed a drink, but all they had was water. _Fucking water ._ He scowled at it for good measure.

After lunch was training, and Haymitch was separated from Effie _again._

The room was bigger, this time, but otherwise set out in the same way, the familiarity of it all blindsiding Haymitch. Others were already there, including Delaine, who was hunched over the plant recognition boards miserably. Haymitch hesitated, wondering if he should say something, and then decided against it, slouching off towards the least occupied station, which was the camouflage training.

Twenty minutes later, he had painted one hand atrociously badly with flowers, and was in a fouler mood than ever. _Yes, this will help me survive,_ he thought bitterly, glaring at his hand.

_Peeta used it to survive._

That was not helpful information. He washed off his hand and wandered over to see if he was still any good with a weapon.

The knife throwing used to be something he was good at, he recalled; so he went there first, taking a handful of the small knives and facing the target. They felt cool in his hand, familiar and almost alive.

 _Please, just hit the fucking thing,_ he thought grimly, taking aim and throwing the first. It clattered to the floor. The room seemed to still for a moment, and he knew people had turned to watch him. With his heart pounding and his hands trembling, he threw the next, and the next, realising in horror that his aim had been all but ruined by his years of drinking and lack of practice.

Throwing knives were clearly out. He left the station with his head down, ignoring the sniggers he was getting. _Like you lot of Capitol idiots will do better._

He ignored the bow for the moment, the station teeming with wannabe Katnisses, and went to have a go at the long handled axe. This was better; the weight and the stability of being double-handed lending itself well to Haymitch’s physical strength. He swung that for a while, decapitating targets with a halting, almost tentative motion that eventually became smoother and more certain. He was winded quickly, though, his fitness level nowhere near what it should have been.

 _You were right about my drinking all along, Effie._ _Should have listened years ago._

After a short break to catch his breath, he meandered around the room, picking up a few more weapons and brushing up on his survival skills. Unsurprisingly, he favoured weapons that required brute strength over finesse, his hands unsteady and useless for aiming.

He tried to ignore the other Tributes. Watching them meant getting to know them, and that meant it would be harder to kill them. He did see enough to notice that they were, mostly, useless at every sort of weapon available. He hoped they learned quickly; they had two weeks or less to master _something._ He had two weeks to try and stop his fucking hands shaking.

Finally, training was over for the day, and he returned to his apartment, followed by Delaine who chattered at him all the while about his surprising skill at camouflage. Haymitch said nothing until Delaine took the hint and fell silent, heading straight to his room without another word.

 

Effie was waiting for him at the table, her wig perfectly styled and her makeup back to flawless perfection. She was glowing in ivory and gold, her wig high and glittering, swooping gold eyelashes fluttering over her cheeks and her dress tight and embroidered with flowers. She should have been beautiful, ethereal; but Haymitch could see nothing but the sadness in her eyes and the almost invisible tremble of her bottom lip as she looked up to greet him.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked, sliding into a seat next to her and cautiously reaching to take her hand. She shook her head _no_ and visibly took in a breath. “I’m fine. How was training?”

“It was just great,” he said with a slight nod to show he understood. “I love realising that I’m effectively defenceless in the face of my imminent death.”

They fell silent as the food arrived, platters piled high with steaming meat and vegetables, bowls of soup and trays of brightly iced cakes soon filling the table with delicious scents and glorious colour. Haymitch hesitated, toying with the idea of a hunger strike, but one glance to Effie told him that they would take it out on her if he rebelled. _Of course. That’s why they chose people we knew._

The escort for Delaine arrived just as they were beginning to eat, disappearing into the Tribute’s room and leading him back out. Delaine had been crying, his face red and his eyes rubbed raw, but he sat and ate steadily regardless, exchanging small talk with his escort that gently avoided anything to do with the Games. Haymitch and Effie ate in silence, not daring to speak when there were people and potential microphones.

 

Delaine went back to his room after the meal, and his escort left the apartment after a brief goodbye to Effie.

“They’re lovers,” Effie whispered to Haymitch with a glance to Delaine’s room. “Or at least, they were. I don’t know all of the details, but it would seem they are attempting to keep it from the Game-Makers.”

“Then why the hell are you telling me?”

“Because they already know, Haymitch. They know everything. They knew before Augustus was even Reaped.”

Before he could reply, she interrupted him. “It’s a beautiful night out, tonight.”

He nodded silently.

Standing, she smoothed down her dress with hands that shook, clearing her throat daintily, and became Escort Effie again, all business and smiles. His heart ached to see her like this again; like she was ten years younger, full of optimism and innocence and sure that everything she was doing was right. She left the room without another word, and Haymitch was left alone to wallow in his misery.

 

It was long past nightfall when he awoke, sprawled in a sofa with a bottle of whiskey cradled in his arms and a pounding headache that spoke for the two thirds of the bottle he’d downed before passing out. The remaining liquid was warm from his body heat, and he tossed it away in disgust after the first sip. It shattered on the tiled floor, amber pooling under the shards of glass. With a groan he got to his feet, swaying gently, and picked up another bottle on his way out of the door, glancing towards Delaine’s room to make sure he wasn’t watching. The door shut quietly behind him, and he lurched to the elevator in cautious silence.

Effie was already on the roof when he arrived a few minutes later, wrapped in a thick, white wool coat edged with white feathers at the collar. She looked irritated until she saw his state, and got up to help him over to the bench she was sitting on.

“I’ve been here for an hour, Haymitch,” she hissed when she’d got him safely next to her. “I was beginning to think you hadn’t got my hint.”

“I was thinking,” he said, slurring slightly.

“Thinking, or drinking?” she said primly, removing his second bottle from his fingers and dropping it gently beside her. “You promised you wouldn’t drink so much.”

“That was before we both got put back in this hell,” he sighed, leaning back. “What else do I have to look forward to?”

Effie winced a little and scooted closer to him, leaning into his shoulder and allowing herself to relax against his side. He leaned his head on hers, inhaling the clean scent of her. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean, sweetheart. Like it was. Before this mess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. We’ve been through this already.”

He kissed the top of her wig gently. “Did they hurt you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Haymitch. Please.”

“Effie, I need to know.”

“Fine,” she sighed, sitting up and moving away from him a little. She didn’t make eye contact as she continued. “They came to get me when I was asleep. They dragged me out and only let me put a gown on. They hit me when I tried to get away, and they hit me when I told them it hurt. They laughed and threatened to do other things. I went with them.”

Her voice was flat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “When you volunteered for me, they beat me. One of them stomped on my foot. When you said that thing to Caesar today, one of them hit me. They’re just waiting for excuses. Is that enough? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” Haymitch replied quietly. He reached out to stroke her arm. _Now I know for certain. I cannot step out of line again._ “I’m sorry. I won’t give them an excuse.”

She smiled a little, looking up at him. “That will certainly be a first, Haymitch Abernathy.”

He couldn’t help but return the smile, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “It’ll be alright.”

She shook her head a little, still smiling, but he leaned in to kiss her before she could protest the sentiment. It was a gentle kiss, warm and soft, and she melted against him with a quiet sigh.

When they broke apart, she hit his chest lightly. “You had better win, you know.”

 _I suspect that won’t do me any good,_ he didn’t say, shrugging instead. “I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart.”

They sat in silence until the dawn began to creep its way over the buildings of the Capitol and Effie was asleep against his shoulder, Haymitch not daring to move in case it woke her up from her clearly desperately needed rest.

 

**I Promise I haven't abandoned this fic- I know where it's going from here, I swear. Apologies for delay.**


	9. Chapter 9

The training progressed – well, mostly, anyway; Haymitch got slowly better at the throwing knives, his trembling hands steadying as he forced himself to wean off the alcohol a little. Using it as a crutch wasn’t working here; he was fucked either way, and he knew Effie would pay for everything he screwed up, so he drank less and got through the withdrawals and the cravings by hitting his pillows at night, screaming into the darkness on the roof, and sullenly ignoring the pain.

He barely spoke to anyone in the training room, paying no attention to the sniggers and whispering behind his back as he tried and failed again and again to re-train his rebellious hands.

_One week left,_ he thought one day, grimly facing down that target for the hundredth time. He had just come from lunch with Effie, who was becoming paler and more nervous by the day. He had been on his best behaviour ever since their conversation on the roof, but he knew that his best behaviour wasn’t good enough, unable to stop the occasional comment or angry reaction to his situation. Effie trembled when anyone raised their voices now; Delaine had taken to almost whispering when she was around, his own face ashen and his manner permanently cowed. He could barely look at his escort, their pain palpable every time they were in the room together.

 

Today, he would hit the target with every knife. He took a breath, glared at his hand, and threw, swearing internally as the first knife clattered to the ground, accompanied by laughter behind him. He snarled to himself and tried again.

It hit, and he let out a breath of relief, widening his stance for the next one. _Thunk._

Four more, and every one hit the target. Okay, they weren’t in the _centre_ , but that was a huge fucking improvement. He grinned tightly to himself, allowing a moment of satisfaction as he noted that everyone has gone silent.

He gathered his knives and tried again. This time, he missed with two. _Fuck._

By the time his arm was sore and his eyes were aching, he had managed to hit with most of his throws and was feeling altogether more confident that he might actually be able to hit a barn door in a combat scenario.

He moved away from the station rolling his shoulders and groaning under his breath. Something made him hesitate at the bow station, his eyes flicking to the racks of recurve bows and the quivers of beautiful silver arrows before he huffed out a breath and moved on to practice with his axe.

 

That night he met Effie on the roof again. She was wrapped up in an extravagant fur and feathered coat, blues and purples and greens topped with a ridiculous purple wig that climbed higher than it had any right to. He slid onto the seat beside her with a withering glance at her outfit.

“Please be quiet,” she said instantly.

“I didn’t even speak, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t need to.” She paused, and Haymitch thought he heard her sniff. “I’m not in the mood.”

He shrugged, shuffling closer to her. “Fair enough.”

They sat in silence for a while, Effie tense beside him. Eventually, she looked at her fingernails carefully, pointedly not making eye contact with him.

“I think they want to play up the lovers thing for the cameras.”

“What?”

“I saw some of the test footage,” she said carefully. “They’ve edited it to make us look like we’re-“

“Together?”

“Well yes, but- not like we _are,_ ” she finished lamely, gesturing expansively.

“So what can we do about it?”

“Very little, I suspect,” she sighed, rolling her neck. “Haymitch, I’m so tired. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that this is alright.”

“I know, Effie. I know.” He kissed the top of her head lightly. _I’m not sure if I can keep doing this either._

“You can’t die.”

“I’m not going to try to, sweetheart.”

Effie sniffed and tried to look at him, failing at the last moment. “I know.”

“Hey, come on. I’m hard to shake off, right?” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “You always said I was like a bad smell, remember?”

She gave him a wan smile and leaned into his shoulder gratefully. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, sighing. She smelled amazing. She was so close, her heat leeching into him and making him painfully aware of her presence. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Want you.”

“This is completely not the time.”

“I am aware of that.”

“And it’s freezing up here.”

“Also aware of that.”

“I’m glad that you still want to- you know, though.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

“This is – it’s my fault you’re here, again, it’s my fault you hurt and you’re angry and I didn’t want this- and I’d understand if you didn’t want to be –“ She didn’t quite say _with me_ but it was there all the same, and Haymitch shook his head in disbelief.

“Don’t be an idiot, Effie.”

She huffed out the ghost of a laugh against his shoulder. “I love how sweet you are.”

“And I love your talent for exaggeration. Come on, love. I don’t blame you for this.”

“I do.”

“Well, tough.” He nudged her with his shoulder until she glanced up, and then kissed her nose. “Because you don’t get to decide who blames you or not. You can’t control everything.”

She smiled and shook her head at him fondly. “I’m almost glad I spent weeks trying to clean your house and make your beds and even feed those damned geese.”

“You old romantic,” Haymitch grinned. “Come on. You really need to go to sleep.”

“Can I stay in your room?”

He paused in the middle of standing up. “Yeah, of course,” he said quietly, not daring to turn around to face her in case it broke the moment and she fled.

He led her back to the apartment and they settled down into Haymitch’s bed, which had thankfully been cleaned by the staff earlier in the day. Effie snuggled close, tucking herself into the crook of Haymitch’s arm, her warmth as comforting as a nightlight to him. He still wanted her; his arousal was insistent and almost desperate, but he pushed it away because she was asleep almost instantly, her exhaustion palpable. He wound himself around her, inhaling her clean scent and feeling her hair- her real hair, not that stupid wig- tickling his nose and his chin. It was as close to relaxed as he’d been in weeks, and without realising, he fell asleep within minutes, Effie’s head nuzzled into his neck.

 

\--

 

When he woke the next day, she was gone, the space in the bed where she’d been still almost warm. He wasn’t upset- she had always risen earlier than him, because he was usually in a liquor induced stupor- but he was starting to almost enjoy waking up without the hangover from hell, and so he got out of bed quickly, stretching and blinking the sleep from his eyes as he padded into the main area for breakfast.

“What’s on the schedule today?” he asked in a sleep-snarled rumble, dropping onto a chair and beginning to pile food onto his plate; bacon, fried eggs, poached eggs, beans, sausages, mushrooms, all recognisable but somehow elevated or changed in order to appeal to the Capitol palate. Haymitch didn’t much care for the strange red sauce the mushrooms were cooked in, or the crystallised herb rings around the fried eggs, but food was food and there was always plenty of it here.

Effie eyed him with a weary disgust before opening the notebook beside her. “Well,” she began, running one blue and gold manicured nail down the page. “You have training before lunch, as usual, and then a fitting for- for the Arena uniform, with the others,” she faltered a little, her eyes flicking up to him and then back down. “And then President Weathers wishes to speak to all of the – the Tributes.”

Delaine looked helplessly at his plate, his escort beside him squeezing his hand in a reassuring way. Haymitch hadn’t really noticed before, but Delaine’s escort- and damned if he could remember the man’s name- was actually rather beautiful in a haunting, aloof way. His eyes were dark and soulful, his hair the typical peacock blue of the Capitol’s fashions but styled in a way that didn’t immediately annoy Haymitch. He always had a wry, slightly amused air to him, his mouth seemingly always half-twisted in an attractive smirk. Delaine’s wrinkled suits and his embarrassed manner seemed so out of place beside him that Haymitch wondered at their relationship.

And then he glanced at Effie, eating her breakfast in full make up and wig, her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies in the sunlight and the gold in her dress glinting on her plate, and he smiled to himself, realising the irony.

“Alright,” he said to the room at large. “We’d better get our game faces on.”


	10. Chapter 10

Training had become monotonous by this point; Haymitch had regained enough proficiency in most weapons that he could barely muster up any enthusiasm to practice, knowing that the few days he had left wasn’t enough to get _really_ better at any of them. So he skulked around the outskirts of the room, stopping at a few places to brush up on survival techniques but not really engaging at any of them.

Until, that is, he spotted Delaine, trying very hard to shoot a recurve bow at a target and missing wildly every time. There was a small crowd watching him and laughing.

 _And I’d been hoping to avoid the fucking bow,_ he sighed inwardly as he made his way across to the man automatically, saying nothing before grabbing his shoulders. He turned him a little, kicked his legs apart, straightened his arm, moved his elbow, and then stepped back with an impatient gesture to get on with it. Delaine shot again, and hit the target- wide of the centre, but it was a start at least. Haymitch huffed out a breath and left Delaine to it, suddenly eager to leave the training room.

 _He could kill you with what you just taught him_ , that nagging voice in his head said. _And you wouldn’t blame him if he did._ That voice was around a lot more now he was less drunk. He didn’t like it.

 

After training and a rather perfunctory lunch, the uniform fitting. Of course they weren’t allowed to actually _see_ the uniforms that were being designed for them; that would give too much away about the terrain and climate of the Arena, no doubt; but they were measured and poked and photographed from all possible angles for a good hour before they were allowed to go, finding themselves herded into a small but overly secure room with not-peacekeepers-honestly flanking all sides of a smoothly polished wood desk. At it, sat President Weathers, her hands clasped before her neatly. She wore green army fatigues today; cleanly pressed and immaculate, it was obvious she wore them for effect only.

“Welcome,” she said expansively, her voice soothing. Haymitch saw some of the others relax into it like a hot bath, their expressions easing and their stiff posture slipping, and scowled at her silently as she made small talk about the importance of the Games and the justice that the Headquarters was dispensing by punishing only those responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent children. “And,” she continued brightly, “There’s always the chance for redemption! One of you will survive and life a long and peaceful life after this; you will be able to be proud of your achievement and tell your grandchildren that you made amends for the atrocities of the past.” A few people nodded, murmuring among themselves, and Haymitch had to physically bite his tongue to avoid saying anything that would annoy her and therefore put Effie in danger again. _You shut up, Haymitch. Don’t you dare._ He stood stiff and silent, his eyes boring right through President Weathers, but he managed to bite back every retort he was thinking of for the whole of her ridiculous speech. He could see Delaine, and with some gratification noted that he too was silent and angry, almost shaking with the ferocity of whatever emotion he was feeling. _Good man. Perhaps he’s not such a wet blanket after all._

He ignored the part of his brain telling him that in a few days, he would be hoping Delaine _was_ a wet blanket.

Weathers moved on to the boring details of the Games themselves next; Haymitch, who had not only been in a Games but had mentored for several others, allowed himself to tune out as the usual rules and regulations were recited. Weathers seemed to have nothing to say that Snow hadn’t already drilled into his brain, and the meeting was over relatively soon.

They filed out silently, some looking almost hopeful. _Poor bastards. They have no chance._

Effie was already at the apartment when they arrived, as was the Escort for Delaine. _Roux. his name is Roux. Just like that kid Katniss helped- ah, fuck. Congratulations, Haymitch, you’ve officially broken your promise to not give a fuck._ He flopped into a chair angrily, picking up a knife and poking the table with it silently for a long minute until Effie finally sighed and leaned over, removing it from his fingers and laying it gently beside him.

He grunted at her in grudging acknowledgment and stared at his knuckles instead.

“Haymitch-“ she began softly, covering his hand with hers. “What-“

“They believe her,” he said without preamble. “The poor fuckers, they actually believe this has some noble fucking purpose, that it’s _justice_ -“ he spat the word out between twisted lips. “That they deserve it,” he finished lamely, glancing up to Roux and Delaine who were looking at each other sadly. “Except you. Don’t you _dare_ believe her, not you too.” Delaine shook his head and opened his mouth, pausing for a moment.

“Thank you- for helping me earlier.” Haymitch shrugged, non-committal. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Effie said, too brightly, and Haymitch noticed dark shadows under her eyes again. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

Haymitch was about as non-hungry as he could remember being, but he piled his plate high and set about finishing it, distracting himself with enough food to make him pass out in a pleasant haze not long after dinner. He didn’t even remember afterwards what he had eaten.

 

The days passed quickly; Haymitch barely registered them right up until the point where the Games where in two days and he was being suited for his interview with Caesar. Effie fiddled with her dress as he tried to figure out his cravat, wondering vaguely why he had never learned to master this stupid item of clothing despite wearing one every year for as long as he cared to recall. Eventually, Effie tutted and fixed it for him, their outfits matching and gaudy- her in a blue, sparkly dress and gold wig, her makeup gold and glittery and her heels so high that Haymitch had to squint up at her.

His suit, thankfully, was not glittery, though the waistcoat and cravat were gold sequins and the suit itself was a blue that complimented her dress. He was also, thankfully, not in heels, though he wouldn’t have put it past the Capitol. It was amazing that they still had so many people willing to work on a Games, considering the fact that everyone about to die had also been involved in the last ones. Haymitch assumed at least some of them were working on threats to their families.

 

Haymitch still barely recognised any of the Tributes; he had successfully managed to ignore or actively avoid socialising with all of them except Delaine, who he gave a curt nod to as he and Roux passed for their interview, dressed in matching peacock blues and greens and looking terrified.

Caesar, of course, was the consummate professional, and soon managed to make even the unremarkable Delaine look like a great candidate for sponsorship, playing up the romance with Roux as a beautiful example of true love. Haymitch felt more and more sick with each moment, Effie trembling beside him like she was on vibrate.

“And of course, you share a name- somewhat- with little Rue, don’t you?” Caesar was saying, as a giant picture of Rue flashed up on the screens. Haymitch flinched like he’d been slapped, and Effie moaned and buried her head in his shoulder. Roux grinned painfully, awkward and at a loss for words, and just nodded as Caesar talked about how inspirational Rue had been, avoiding the subject of Katniss completely.

 

And then it was over, and it was Haymitch and Effie’s turn. She squeezed his hand tight as they headed onto the stage, muttering “Smile, Haymitch, for me-“ under her breath. He forced a grin, even waving to the crowds as they stepped into the bright lights and explosion of noise. The audience went _wild_ for them, the two most famous Tributes of this Games; everyone thrilled to be so close to actual celebrities. Effie was breathing fast and shallow, her hand gripping his so tightly he couldn’t feel his fingers, but he went forward as nonchalantly as possible, forcing himself to look relaxed and taking a seat beside Caesar, followed stiffly by Effie who automatically arranged her dress neatly, staring directly at her feet, trembling minutely all over. The lights were blinding, and the noise terrible; Haymitch could barely see further than the stage without squinting, could hear nothing over the roars and stomps of the crowd, and his mind went right back to the first time he was sat here listening to the noise of the Capitol, smaller and even more scared, his palms sweating and his eyes darting nervously about the place even as he forced himself to sit still, to look calm, to play the character he had been given by his escort- cool, casual, mysterious, all of the things she told him would give him sponsorship from teenage girls (one of the largest demographics, she had said proudly.) He had had no idea then that he could be considered attractive; it had taken many years before he had even watched that tape back, and only then with a bottle in his hand. And now, he was reliving it, his throat dry and his eyes wide and blank, and this time it was Effie who pulled him back, squeezing tightly on his fingers and making him wince. He shook his head to clear it, glancing first to her and then to Caesar, and he huffed out a breath with a short nod. Alright. Let’s do this.


	11. Chapter 11

The interview was even more brief than the last time; after all, there were more than twice the amount of interviews to get through and even Caesar was starting to look a little frazzled.

Haymitch managed to stay fairly calm- to everyone except Effie, who he knew could feel his leg trembling against her. She took control for all questions not directly addressed to him.

“Haymitch- this is, of course, not your first Games. How do you rate your chances this time around, looking at the competition?”

Haymitch winced inwardly. “My chance is the same as last time,” he said flatly after a pause. “Either I’ll be a murderer, or I’ll die trying to be. Either way it ain’t pretty.” He shrugged and tried to look bored. Caesar nodded in sham sympathy and moved on quickly.

Of course, the inevitable question came up eventually.

“And of course, this must be putting a huge strain on your romantic relationship, as well, am I right?”

Haymitch opened his mouth to snarl a sarcastic response along the lines of _well if you call not fucking for weeks in case they’re filming it and trotting off to a messy death in a couple of days “strain” then yeah, I guess,_ but Effie frowned at him and then took over, smiling brightly and giggling in a suitable coy manner. “Well! I hardly think that’s appropriate for the time this will be broadcasting, Caesar!” she smiled. “But no, we’re stronger than ever.” She turned to Haymitch who forced himself to relax and grin back, leaning into her shoulder.

“I’m so pleased to hear it!” Caesar beamed, clapping Haymitch on the knee exuberantly and laughing. “There you have it, folks- love blooming in the midst of the Games once again.” The audience applauded again, and Haymitch and Effie were bustled from the stage and back into the relatively dimly lit corridors. Haymitch swayed, then lurched, caught by Effie who leaned him against a wall as his head reeled and he shivered. “I’m going to be sick,” he said faintly, and proceeded to do just that against a flowerpot as Effie grimaced.

When he recovered himself, he stood leaning against that wall for a long moment, his eyes closed. Finally, he sighed, sagging forward. “Effie-“ he said, groping for her blindly. She was there, as she always had been, and she helped him to the apartment in silence, one arm wrapped around his waist. Delaine had gone to bed already, and Roux was nowhere to be seen, probably with him, so Effie sat him at the table and got him a glass of water before sliding into a seat beside him.

“Remembering the last time?” she asked after a long silence. He nodded miserably, staring at the glass almost angrily and desperately wishing it was liquor. He drank it anyway.

“Me too.” She stopped, hesitating, her hand hovering just above his on the table, before she brought it down to cover his and added, “I still have nightmares about what happened before you got me out of the prison- before Thirteen?”

Haymitch glanced up at her, not speaking.

“And I know it’s not the same, it isn’t what you went through, not even slightly, but what I mean to say is that I know it isn’t alright and I know it might never be so you don’t,” she took a deep breath, “have to pretend that it is, to protect me. I know you hurt and you miss your family and that you feel like you murdered every Tribute- every child- we sent to the Games and I do too, and it wasn’t- I mean, I am so sorry for –everything,” she finished, making a face that was somewhere between disgust and sobbing, her eyelashes in danger of getting wet. “I’m not very good at this.”

“You’re doing just fine, sweetheart,” Haymitch said with a soft smile. _Effie. Talking about her feelings? Is this even the same woman?_   He leaned his shoulder against her gratefully. “I can always rely on you, at least.”

“For what? Crying?” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin and smiling wanly.

“To surprise me,” Haymitch sighed in mock irritation, turning to kiss her softly. She melted into the kiss like she’d been waiting for it all day, twisting in her seat and winding her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. _Fuck, how long has it been?_ he thought dimly, realising he was already hard, her soft warmth against him maddening and not enough. He stood, pulling her with him and lifting her in his arms with ease.

“But-“ she said, looking worriedly about them.

“Fuck the fucking cameras,” he said with a snarl that was almost feral. “I am _done_ pandering to this bullshit.” He was across the apartment in three strides, pushing open the door to his room and slamming it behind him with a foot. “What are they going to do anyway? Broadcast us fucking to the entire Capitol at primetime? I go into the arena in less than 48 hours, I think they’ll have better things to do than-“

“Then shut up,” Effie hissed, kissing him hungrily, “and let’s give them a show.”

He dropped her onto the bed and started stripping, not even bothering to try and look good doing it. She hesitated for a moment before following suit, kicking her ridiculous heels across the room and killing a lamp. Haymitch laughed and threw one of his boots at the other one, sending it crashing to the floor. He balled up his shirt and tossed it behind him before turning back to look at Effie, who had somehow slipped out of that dress in seconds and was unpinning her wig daintily. _Fuck, she’s beautiful,_ he thought in awe, his eyes raking her body. He saw bruises fading to yellow on her arms and her ribs and wanted only to kiss them. He saw the scars she had taken in prison before he had gotten her out and remembered the curve of each one, how the raised skin felt under his fingertips from each time he had tried to smooth them out for her in guilt. He saw _her_ , so defiant and full of life that the Capitol had never managed to extinguish, and vowed that if he could, he would come back to her, and this time he would tell her he loved her. Properly, without the dancing around and the awkward glances.

Fuck, he might even marry her, if she’d have him.

She looked up from her task, placing the wig to one side, and frowned, wondering what he was staring at, before reaching to pull the bedclothes over herself. Haymitch shook his head,  climbing onto the bed beside her and pulling her to him gently, more gently than he remembered ever touching anyone. “C’mere.”

“I know I’m not-“ she started, but he kissed her mid-sentence. “You’re perfect,” he said when he pulled back. “Except for those eyelashes.”

She sighed and pulled them off, throwing them on the floor. “Better?” She looked younger like this, more like the Effie he remembered from sleepy mornings and lazy days in bed. “Much.” He rolled them both so that Effie was underneath him, her hands finding his back and digging in, her legs wrapping around him as though she couldn’t be close enough. He lowered his head and kissed her neck, inhaling the clean scent of her and nuzzling at her collarbone, trying to lose himself completely in her and her body. She arched her back against him, pushing her hips up impatiently against his cock, and he chuckled low in his throat. “I’m getting to it, sweetheart.”

“Now,” she said quietly, not able to meet his eyes. “I need you in me.” She blushed furiously as she said it, and Haymitch grinned viciously in delight, his cock aching as a hot flash of arousal shot through him.

Instead of answering, he nodded, and shifted just enough to allow him to push inside her without detaching her grip on him. Her eyes fluttered closed as he slid all the way in, starting a slow, deep rhythm that he knew she particularly loved. One of her hands slid between them to her clit, almost shyly, and he kissed the top of her head, then her eyelids, making her open her eyes to look at him. “You’re beautiful,” he said, needing her to know. She _had_ to know that she was the most exquisite woman Haymitch had ever seen; but there was no way of articulating it, not now, not _him._ She smiled, vulnerable and open, and leaned up to kiss him hungrily, her mouth hot and needy. He groaned helplessly, knowing her wasn’t going to last very long after being denied this for weeks, and began to thrust harder, faster, Effie moaning under him, her breathing short and harsh. “Haymitch, I-“ she said, but never got the chance to finish the sentence as she moaned and trembled, her orgasm rolling over her and carrying Haymitch along with it, his own climax hitting him hard enough to make his vision blur at the edges for a long moment.

They lay quietly after, Haymitch wondering blearily if that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with Effie and wanting to remember every moment, every smell and sound and taste of her.

When he glanced to her, she was asleep, curled in the crook of his arm, and his heart ached terribly to see her so relaxed and trusting.

 _One more day,_ he thought, watching her. _One more day and then I’m in the Arena again, and everything I fought the Revolution for is lost to yet another tyrant._


	12. Chapter 12

Like everything in this world, the peace went too soon; the next day was a blur of publicity photos, final outfit adjustments, and hurried snacks in between, no time for a real meal. Haymitch barely saw Effie, finding himself whisked between places by anonymous people he’d never met. He wondered if it was because of last night, and couldn’t find it in him to give a shit.

After what was clearly going to pass as “lunch,” a pathetic sandwich which barely even passed as Capitol food, it was time for the individual scores in training. Haymitch had the delightful task of going last, preceded by Delaine. He assumed the drab little man would be using the bow, hopefully to decent effect considering how pitiful  he had been at most of the other weapons. He found himself hoping he did alright, knowing that if he did he would just be more competition.

_I need a drink._

When his turn came, he stood on stiff legs, shaking out the cramp in them as he walked towards the training room. His stomach growled at him and he scowled to himself. _Surely_ they could have given him a decent meal the day before throwing him into the Arena? It seemed only polite.

The door hissed shut behind him and he realised that he had _absolutely_   no idea what he was going to do. Should he just go for a steady, unremarkable score, knowing that Effie would have to work harder to get him sponsors?

Did he dare to do something that might get him killed?

He hesitated, remembering everything he had seen; all the Games where the kids he had mentored had been slaughtered, one by one, for the entertainment of people who didn’t even see them as human. He remembered trying to drown himself both literally and figuratively in alcohol, unable to cope with the aftermath of the horror he had endured and was forced to continue enduring year after year as some cruel reward for surviving. He thought of Effie and everything she had gone through to help a revolution she had no real tie to other than him- being captured, tortured, forced to abandon her luxuries and her comforts to live underground with people who instinctively didn’t trust her for nothing more than her Capitol accent.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed some paint, turning to the wall and beginning to draw in crude, thick strokes with his fingers.

 

-

 

He refused to tell Effie what he had done, and her face was pinched and worried when they finally sat down in the apartment with Delaine and Roux to watch the announcement of scores. There was Caesar as usual, looking as though he was announcing the arrival of a whole load of puppies and could hardly contain his excitement. It sickened Haymitch, and he had to remind himself again and again that he didn’t know what they were holding over Caesar’s head to make him say what they wanted.

Haymitch didn’t pay much attention to the scores- a lot of low ones this year, Capitol citizens clearly not making the best fighters. Surprising. Six, six, five, the occasional seven- he was bored after a few minutes, knowing that there were thirty scores to get through and he would likely be last. On the rare revealing of an eight, he made sure to look at the face that matched the score, knowing it was a good idea to have an idea of who to watch out for. He recognised one of the women who had been Reaped early, a thin-faced woman; Messalina, she was called. He recalled seeing her in training, using the climbing apparatus to good effect.

Delaine scored an eight, and Haymitch gave him a surprised but not unimpressed glance. He flushed a little as Roux patted him on the back.

 _He could be the one to kill you after all,_ that annoying voice said quietly. Haymitch ignored it, because he was next.

“Haymitch Abernathy, our former Victor and volunteer for these Games- Nine!”

 _Nine._ That was good. He’d been expecting a lot worse. He nodded thoughtfully at the screen and had a celebratory sip of the bright pink fruit juice Effie was forcing him to drink.

“Now will you tell us what you did?” she said, agonised, and everyone turned to him.

“I drew them a little picture of our illustrious President Weathers dressed as Snow, white rose and all,” he said, suppressing a grin at Effie’s scandalised expression.

“And then I filled it full of arrows,” he continued. “And I may have written _nothing ever changes_ on the wall.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes distant. “And I remembered to say ‘thank you for your consideration,’ as well,” he finished, glancing at Effie with a quick smile. “Remember to tell Katniss that, when you see her.”

“You can tell her yourself,” Effie tutted, fussing with the hem of her dress. She looked both horrified and proud, trying to hold back laughter-or were those tears?- and Haymitch glowed inside, recalling the much less favourable reaction she’d had to Katniss’ confession just a few years ago. Delaine was giving him an open mouthed stare, and even Roux was looking impressed. He allowed himself to relax into the seat a little. There was nothing else he could do now. It was up to his own good luck and Effie’s work whether he survived or not out there.

They stayed awake long after Delaine and Roux went to bed, not speaking, Effie just curled into his arms on the sofa, her head pressed against his chest. She was so warm and alive, her hair clean-scented and soft, the gentle rhythm of her breathing against his arm soothing and beautiful. She was everything he had fought for compressed into one person.

_Home._

He had to try and come back to her, so that he could begin to find the words to tell her what she was to him in a way that wasn’t painful and awkward on his tongue. Words like _love_ and _hope_ , unmarred with drink or imminent despair or painful loss. Words he had denied himself for too long; words that he had denied _her_ for too long. They fell asleep where they sat, tangled together into one creature.


	13. Chapter 13

 

The next day came inevitably, Haymitch being woken rather roughly by an I-can’t-believe-they’re-not-Peacekeepers poking him. “Alright, alright,” he scowled, rubbing hard at his eyes and groaning. The spot beside him was cold, his muscles stiff from staying in the same position all night. He blinked blearily up at the guard and huffed out, “The Games won’t start without me, you know.”

The guard wasn’t amused. “Come with me.”

“I’m coming,” he grumbled, standing and stretching. His body protested the movement, creaking painfully. “Where’s Effie?”

“Here,” she said, behind him. Her makeup was perfect, unblemished; wearing a dress so blue it made every other colour in the room pale in comparison, surprisingly simple except for the colour. Her eyeshadow was the same shade, gold flecks adorning her cheeks and her wig. She gave him a smile he knew all too well; hiding behind her professional attitude where it was safe.

She stepped towards him, shooing the guard away impatiently. “He’s coming. Didn’t you hear him?” The guard took a step back, allowing Effie in to smooth down his shirt, comb the tangles from his hair, and look him in the eye. “Let’s go.”

 

He knew where they were going as well as she did; after all, they’d been sending children off to die there for years. They walked in silence down endless corridors, their hands laced together. Haymitch felt a swell of pride looking at her; her head high, her expression defiant and calm, she looked for all the world like she was just strolling to work. Only he could feel the tremor in her hands, could see the ghosts of dark shadows under her eyes that the gold flecks were hiding. He squeezed her fingers once, and she squeezed back, and then they were out on the launch pad and chaos erupted around them.

Capitol citizens, journalists, cameras everywhere, flashing and popping and blinding him briefly each time. Screams, jeers mingled in with the cheering of many of the crowd. He staggered, braced by Effie, and tried to pull his mind back from the past where it remembered terror even more acrid than now. He recovered, took in a breath, and cultivated the nonchalant, neutral expression that had got him through the last Games, lifting his own chin and allowing his eyes to glance over the crowd without settling on anyone. Effie walked beside him, deflecting the questions the press threw his way with an expertise he admired.

 

He almost balked at the airship, his heart pounding and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. But Effie gave him a nudge, kept him moving forward somehow, towards the open mouth of the ship where he could see the other Tributes already strapped in and waiting. He stopped again just before the gangway, glancing back to the crowd and then to Effie.

_Haymitch, say something, c’mon._

“Effie, I-“

“Don’t you _dare,_ Haymitch Abernathy,” she hissed at him, eyes flashing. “You say that, you don’t think you’re coming back. And you _are_ going to come back.”

He stared at her for a moment, gratitude welling up in his throat like he was choking. He swallowed past it finally, looking back again at the people shouting and screaming at them, cameras pointed towards them from all angles.

“Fuck it,” he said softly, pulling her to him and kissing her possessively. She resisted for a second before wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips soft and warm against his, her heartbeat rabbit-fast against his chest. He knew that would be all over the media in the next few hours, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You come back to me, you hear?” she whispered in his ear when he pulled back. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

The idea of her stomping into the Arena on the hunt for him was absurd enough to make him actually smile, and with that, she pushed him away from her and towards the huge ship. He stepped out of the daylight and into the darkness again, a medicinal, antiseptic smell hitting him. He was guided to his seat, strapped in, and injected with the tracking device before he even registered it. Everything had gone sort of numb, fuzzy around the edges, and his ears were ringing dully like there had been an explosion nearby. The door shut, all last traces of daylight disappearing, and the hum of the engines starting up was like the last nail in the coffin.

He looked over at Delaine, who was white as a sheet but silent, his face blank. Haymitch caught his eye and nodded, and Delaine gave him a weak nod back.

_He’s doing better than I would have expected. Might even last a few days. Might last longer than me._

The ship lurched, the engines roaring as it took off, and Haymitch felt sick to his stomach, lowering his head and groaning. The antiseptic smell was starting to wear thin, a pungent aroma of fear and sweat taking its place. He could hear several people vomit, a couple crying, but he didn’t bother lifting his head to see who it was, instead focusing grimly on keeping his own bile down.

 

The journey wasn’t long, or perhaps it was hours; he honestly couldn’t have explained how time passed in that ship, the stench of warm bodies and sweat growing stronger with every minute. Eventually, of course, the ships engines turned down a notch, lurching through the air as it landed. It thudded to the ground and a couple of Tributes screamed, then laughed nervously. Haymitch said nothing, unbuckling his belt and waiting to be herded out like cattle to the slaughter.

 

Up until now, he hadn’t really thought about what the Arena was going to be like; to be honest, it had hardly crossed his mind. But now, as he was nudged and prodded towards his assigned area- he presumed to be changed into the Arena outfit and shoved into a fucking tube- it was all he could think about. Would it be hot? Cold? Mountainous? What kind of Gamemakers did the President have working on this Arena- had she forced them to co-operate, threatened their families in the same way Caesar was presumably being threatened, or were they doing it because they enjoyed it? He wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

What if the Arena was something he had absolutely no preparation for-something he’d never dealt with, had no frame of reference for?

 _Then you’ll learn, or you’ll die,_ that annoying voice informed him. He ignored it. _I liked you better when I was drunk._

The room he was shoved into was sparse and cold, the only things in it a tube (surprise) and an outfit hanging on a rack.

 _What, no stylist?_ he thought wryly. He shrugged himself out of his clothes almost thankfully, the crumpled suit hardly Arena wear, and then turned to see what nightmare of lycra they had cooked up for him.

The trousers were fine; relatively loose fitting cargo pants with plenty of pockets, an off-beige colour. Nothing terrible. He pulled them on and stomped his feet into the soft leather boots beside the rack. They had thick, treaded soles, but were otherwise unadorned and gave nothing away. Perplexed, he turned to the shirt, which was long sleeved and of a thick, slightly coarse weave, in a greyish colour. Again, nothing interesting. The jacket, though- that was _leather_ , and Haymitch hadn’t seen anything quite as beautiful in a long time. It was fragrant and felt almost warm, made for practicality rather than beauty. It had two big pockets and a thick collar. _Is it going to be cold, then? Or is this protection?_

He got into it carefully, actually enjoying the tactile sensation of the leather on him, a warm weight. It zipped up all the way to the neck. There was a reflective patch on the left shoulder that said “12” in white numbers, and on the lower part of the arm there was his surname in white reflective letters. Clearly there would be darkness at some point, and they wanted to keep track of him.

He felt bundled in, the leather supple and warm but not restricting his movement too much. But, frustratingly, it didn’t give much away as to what he was about to face.

 

Then the countdown began, and his heart lurched wildly  in his chest, panic finally settling squarely on him like an old friend.

_Fuck fuck I can’t do this, I can’t, not again-_

But there was nowhere to go but into the tube, nowhere to run to anymore.

He stepped inside and closed his eyes, willing himself to at least _try_ to run, try to make his legs work long enough to get somewhere safe until he could _think._


	14. Chapter 14

 

The tube shot upwards and he was immediately blinded by sunlight, narrowing his eyes against it and unable to see anything for a long, heart-stopping few seconds. He blinked rapidly, the world coming into focus as the glass disappeared, leaving him stood on the platform. He felt cold; his whole body numb as though doused in freezing water, his muscles tense and shivering. But he forced himself to look around, smelling smoke. _What?_

 

He, and the other twenty-nine unlucky bastards, were stood on platforms barely even raised from the ground. At his back was a high, chain-link fence which went to the left and right of the Tributes as far as Haymitch could see. Clearly there was only one way to go immediately, and that was forward, towards the Cornucopia; but that was sat gleaming in the middle of the ruins of a city, still burning fiercely and throwing thick black smoke all around them. He coughed, waving it away from his face so he could see better.

It was the Capitol. He could see the remains of the Panem seals, crumbled and fallen to the floor, rubble and concrete strewn everywhere as though this were the middle of a warzone. Marble statues lay in pieces, once grand buildings were ripped in two as though made of clay. And the smoke- God, it was everywhere, choking and painful on the throat. In the silences between the countdown, he could hear the crackling of flames, and the sobbing of several of the other Tributes. _That won’t help you,_ he thought grimly, glancing to the left and right as it finally reached _10_.

_9._

There was Delaine, pale but steady and looking ridiculous in his leather jacket. He was about three people down to Haymitch’s left, and he wasn’t looking anywhere except at the Cornucopia. His lips moved, and Haymitch wondered if he was praying or cursing. The latter would likely be more useful at this point.

_8._

He rolled his neck, taking in a shallow set of breaths and trying to ignore the burning in his throat. They were fenced in, only one way to go; the Cornucopia, and then the burning Capitol. He wondered what waited in there, and whether that was all of the Arena- just one huge, blazing death trap.

 _Could be worse._ For once, the voice in his head was welcome with its sarcasm.

_7._

_6._

He strained, trying to see what there was at the mouth of the Cornucopia. He was going to need to be fast, faster than he had ever been, perhaps. Though, maybe he was overestimating the Capitol citizens; he had no idea if their survival instinct would kick in fast enough to save them when the first of their number reached the supplies. Perhaps they would simply freeze like rabbits in headlights.

_5._

Glancing down, he took in the floor in front of him. His heart hammered in his chest but he ignored it, trying to take in as much information as possible in these last moments. The ground looked solid enough; concrete, cracked badly in places, rubble and debris scattered across the surface. Several areas were burning fiercely, the smell acrid and plastic. He doubted it would be as easy as it looked.

_4._

_3._

He wriggled his toes in the soft boots, settling his weight in preparation for running; a sport he wasn’t fond of at the best of times, never mind in a life or death situation. But he _had_ to get to that damn thing, had to find _something_ he could use, because without it, his survival of even the first night was unlikely.

He took in another breath, and held it.

_2._

_1._

A noise like a cannon shot rang out, and he was off, head down and running as fast as he ever had in his first Games. His muscles protested, his joints aching and older, but he ignored them in favour of swearing under his breath, repeatedly and colourfully. He ducked around a blazing car, barely hesitating before jumping a crack in the concrete that was almost too wide. His lungs burned, his breath was shallow and gasping, his eyes watered from the smoke, and still he ran.

There was an explosion to his right, and out of the corner of his vision he watched a Tribute blown to pieces. _Landmines._

Then the screaming began, as more explosions rocked the ground. He saw concrete and earth shot into the air on all sides as more mines exploded, many taking Tributes with them. He felt fear dimly, as though from a distance, knowing that to hesitate would be as sure a death sentence as carrying on. _Well, I have nothing left to lose except Effie,_ he thought wildly, running grimly on. There was the Cornucopia; and he was among the first to reach it, the landmines causing several others to hesitate and rethink their strategy. He barely stopped running as he reached the entrance, picking up a full backpack and throwing it on even as he scanned for something, anything else lying in the open. He settled on a two handed axe, pausing in front of a bow before shaking his head and leaving it where it lay. There was another Tribute shadowed in the entrance to the Cornucopia, and Haymitch bared his teeth, raising the axe instinctively as though all the years had fallen away and he was back in the first Games.

But it was Delaine, his hands up in surrender. He was panting, his eyes wild and rolling and sweat pouring down his cheeks, but he was alive. Haymitch lowered the axe a fraction and stared at him for a moment. Uncertainty hung between them, the vague friendship they had built up gone in an instant. Then Haymitch nodded to Delaine, and shoved past him back into the Arena. More Tributes were arriving, many screaming and injured, but Haymitch knew better than to stick around and get himself caught in a bloodbath. He hoped Delaine would get out too. That wasn’t a good way to go.

He ducked to the right, working purely on a hunch, and lost himself among the ruins of a large building, not looking back as he heard the shouts and the killing begin.

The derelict was burned out, the walls black and coated in ash, but at least it wasn’t actively on fire. Haymitch picked his way through it, determined to put as much distance between himself and the rest of them as possible. He knew it might be his only chance to get away from them. The air stunk, his face was black with soot and sweat, and he was desperately thirsty, but none of it mattered. The fear had receded to the back of his mind, every muscle in his body ready now for action, adrenaline flowing through him in time with his heartbeat. He was also aware that there would probably be more mines among the buildings, perhaps even booby-traps of a different kind; but to be too cautious could cost him his life anyway, and so he carried on steadily, leaving the first building through a hole in the back wall and threading his way through what looked like an old alley to another, even larger structure. This one looked more stable, and so he began to climb the stairs, step by shaky step, wincing as he heard boards creak and dust settle around him with each movement.

When he felt safe enough- three or four flights up, through several patches of terrifyingly unsteady footing- he sat down, his face to the door, and began to unpack his backpack, making a mental inventory.

One (empty) water canister.

One red plastic whistle.

One length of strong red corded rope.

One flashlight.

One blanket (poncho?) made of a strange, silvery material he didn’t recognise. It seemed strong and lightweight, but not warm.

One packet of water purifying tablets. (4).

One small bottle of what looked like water until he sniffed it. Pure alcohol.

And one small, but sharp, knife.

 

He repacked his things thoughtfully. No food, and no indication of what he was likely to face. But a good haul nonetheless. He shouldered the bag again, hefted his axe and made his way back through the building, ears straining to hear anything above the fires and the building itself.

Unmolested, he re-entered the Arena proper, and scanned around him carefully. He couldn’t _see_ anyone yet, but that didn’t mean he was alone. He had to get out of this central area before it became too dangerous- and crowded. So he set off in what he hoped was a roughly northerly direction, keeping the shadows of houses and buildings and avoiding open areas as much as possible until he came against the fence once more, stretching out to either side of him. It curved before the edge of his vision, and Haymitch wondered if that meant he was in the middle of a much larger Arena than he had initially assumed. It did make sense that they would be pulling out all of the stops for this Games, a fine example to the masses. He grimaced and began following the fence, peering through it curiously. All he could see from this point were trees and bushes, thick and obscuring any glimpses he might have had of the area beyond.

 

\--

 

 

_Effie_

_She watched as the Games began, her hands twisting tightly together and her heart beating so fast she imagined she could feel it as a constant hum in her chest. But she had to be dignified, to be outwardly calm; there were so many people here, all of the Escorts crowded into one room, the air palpably thick with tension. Beside her, Roux stood silently, his arms folded across his chest and a grim expression on his face. She knew he was barely breathing, could feel the intermittent shudders of breath go through him as he seemed to remember. Her eyes were glued to Haymitch, on the camera following him as the cannon rang out and thirty desperate people ran for the Cornucopia as one. She knew every Escort had their eyes fixed on a different camera, a different Tribute, but she was only dimly aware of their gasps and cries, willing Haymitch on silently as though her determination alone could bring him back to her._

_This is all my fault_ , _he should never have volunteered,  she thought helplessly for a moment as the landmines began to go off, loud, booming explosions that sent debris into the air like geysers. But she shook herself mentally, discarding the self-pity like an out of fashion coat, and began to really watch him, watch his strategy and his movements, trying to work out his thought processes and his emotions as though that would help somehow. Perhaps it would; after all, she was Mentor as well as Escort this year, and she was expected to gather sponsors. It would be difficult enough scraping up support for Haymitch in the Capitol without not even knowing what it was he needed._

_She felt, rather than saw, people in the room with her collapse, crying as people they knew and no doubt loved died screaming, and ignored their sobs of agony, secretly relieved each time that it was not him and filled with the agony of guilt at such a thought. Guilt was a feeling she was getting more used to these days; since the Revolution, she had felt its prickle more often, aware of her own privileged position compared to that of the others she came to know._

_He had made it to the Cornucopia! She watched with her heart in her mouth as he picked up his supplies and – oh, Delaine was there! She glanced to Roux, who didn’t move a muscle, and tensed, wondered what would happen here. But the stand-off didn’t happen, Haymitch leaving, and she let out a sigh of breath that Roux echoed beside her. She lost sight of him somewhere in the second building, but he was alive and he had escaped the bloodbath, and that was all she could hope for as of yet._

_But she could see the rest of the Arena, could see what he could not possibly know yet, and almost envied his ignorance._

 

 

**So. This is the Arena! Each chapter will reveal a new area in the image until you have the entire map- that way, you don't know any more than Haymitch does at any moment ;) I hope you like this idea! The red dots and lines are Haymitch's (rough) route through the Arena.**

 


	15. Chapter 15

He walked steadily for about a mile or more, occasionally glancing back to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The sounds of fighting and screaming faded slowly until he could barely hear anything except the crackling of fires in buildings, the occasional groan of timber giving way or rubble shifting. He was surprised by how quickly he had settled back into the routine of survival; his ears becoming attuned to noises around him, his footfalls quieter, his breathing even and his eyes constantly, constantly scanning his surroundings. His heartrate had dropped again, the earlier surge of adrenaline gone, and he was left feeling hollow and empty on the inside.

 _But alive,_ his brain reminded him.

 _And unfortunately sober,_ he thought.

_Wait._

He stopped, looking at the fence curiously. There was a small gap here; big enough to wriggle underneath if he took off his backpack. He scraped at it a little with the handle of his axe, digging it out a bit more, and then dropped and shoved his pack through, following it with a grunt and emerging on the other side. After a moment, he pushed the dirt back underneath the hole, trying to block the hole back up and prevent anyone following him too quickly.

Glancing back to this new area, he turned and shoved his way through the undergrowth and bushes obscuring his view, hacking at branches in his way and ducking under thick, thorny vines. It felt subtly hotter here; Haymitch wasn’t sure how that worked, but then again the Games were always a display of ostentatious technology.

_There._

He pushed through the last wave of bushes and stopped dead, confused for a moment.

It was a concrete wasteland here; cracks and fissures split the ground, like a badly maintained road as far as he could see, electricity pylons lined up in once neat rows, now with some disfigured and bent, their cables trailing across the ground in all directions and sparking dangerously. There was a hum in the air and a faint crackle of ozone that made Haymitch suddenly very uncomfortable. It sounded like an electric fence, but amplified a thousand times. It made the hairs on his arms stand up.  Everywhere he looked, there were cables, coiled across the concrete like giant snakes.

Haymitch took a cautious step onto the cracked and potholed concrete, waiting for a moment before taking another. It seemed solid enough, and so he set off across the wasteland, stepping warily over cables and avoiding the pylons as much as possible.

Wisely, it seemed, as a crack of blue light exploded above his head, lightning- or something similar – arcing across the cables over him in a thunderous explosion that sent sparks raining over Haymitch. He ducked out of the way, swearing, just in time to avoid another crack of electricity, and another, until the pylons were all thrumming and crackling, the electricity arcing down to the closet cables in thin lines of blue like veins. Haymitch ran from it, jumping over the cables recklessly as the crackling hum began to spread across the ground, cable after cable sparking and dangerous, catching him up relentlessly. He could taste it on his tongue, the slightly acidic residue left after a violent storm, could feel his hairs prickling all over, and lowered his head, ignoring everything else as he headed for a clear spot of concrete where the coils and pylons ended. His breath heaving, he cleared a pile of sparking cables in one juddering leap, and hit the concrete beyond them hard, winded. He managed to roll away, looking back in time to see the most terrifying thing of the day so far; a huge, intricately interwoven net of blue electricity, crawling over the ground towards him at a rapid rate, flowing and crackling between pylons and cables effortlessly until it connected and covered as much ground as he could see. He pushed himself to his feet, backing away, hypnotised by the rhythmic, smooth flow coming towards him for a moment before he shook his head, twisting around and running again for the clear concrete. He got there a second before the electricity caught up with him, hearing the spitting and hissing of it behind him as if in frustration. Still, he ran a little further, until his vision started to grey at the edges and he couldn’t breathe anymore. Sprawling to the ground, he gasped in huge lungfuls of air, his head between his knees and his whole body shaking with exhaustion. He stayed like that for what felt like forever, until the spasms stopped and he couldn’t feel his heartbeat in every part of his body anymore.

The, he squinted back at the mess he had come through. Nothing. The electricity, lightning, whatever it was- had just disappeared.

He felt as though he had just ran a marathon- two marathons- the training of the previous weeks not even slightly adequate as preparation for the sheer terror he had just felt.

 _I need a fucking drink._ He spat on the ground, scowling, and slowly got to his feet. _I hope that makes great viewing._ He had no doubt that it would be aired; the Capitol always loved a good near-death experience, and with him being the only District Tribute, he was sure to be causing a storm. He only hoped Effie was holding up alright under what was probably a lot of scrutiny.

_Effie._

The thought of her made his heart ache. He conjured up her face in his mind, reminded himself what the hell he was doing here. He tried to imagine what it would have been like if she had been in the Arena; what would she have done, where would she have gone? The thought made him angry. He would have had to sit there on the sidelines, watching her fight – and probably die – while he could do nothing to help. This was better. This way, even if he didn’t get home, at least he’d _tried_. He hefted his pack again and set off walking, thirsty and tired.

\--

 

_Effie_

_She didn’t know that she’d held her breath for almost the entire time Haymitch was running from the electricity; only realised, in fact, when she let it all out in one whooping sigh as he dropped to the floor, safe. Her hands were shaking and she twisted them into each other tightly to stop the tremors. They had allowed the Escorts to leave the group viewing, and so she was in the apartment, perched uncomfortably on a sofa that was supposed to be luxurious and watching obsessively. She didn’t know where Roux was, but it was a distant concern; her attention was tightly focused on the screen in front of her as Haymitch got to his feet again, looking weary and miserable. Her heart ached to see him, wondering what he was thinking, whether he hated her for this, for putting him back into the Arena after all these years. She wouldn’t blame him for resenting her. She would apologise when he got back to her._

_When, not if, she told herself again, firmly._

_She saw the mutts before he did, physically having to fight a scream from escaping her, a futile warning that he would never hear. They were slow, oozing creatures; humanoid and skinless, wet looking and raw pink like uncooked salmon. Her face twisted in disgust as they lurched towards him, Haymitch only seeing them when it was almost too late. He brought up his axe, looking bewildered, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to swing. But his instinct kicked in, and he swung low, slicing the things legs out from under it with a wet, slick noise. It groaned, falling, and Haymitch swiped off its head, his chest heaving with the effort. He looked alert again now, twisting his head back and forth, noticing for the first time that there were more of them. Move, move!- she screamed internally, and he did, giving the slow creatures a wide berth and heading towards what looked like an old factory. He glanced back occasionally, grimacing, but only had to deal with a few of them directly. She couldn’t help the surge of pride that ran through her as she watched his deadly efficiency with the weapon, remembering him when he was younger and even more dangerous, before the alcohol had dulled him enough that he could sometimes, almost forget his torment._

_She had loved that Haymitch as much as this one; perhaps she could have the best of both when he returned._

_She was brought out of her reverie by the sudden realisation, almost at the same time as Haymitch, that the factory wasn’t a factory but a nuclear power plant- and that it was absolutely crawling with mutts, hordes of the fleshy pink monsters shambling around the grounds. She watched as he stopped, steering around it with the air of a man who was completely done with everything, and headed off towards the boundary of- as she could see- this section of the Arena, albeit unknowingly. “District 5 down, 12 to go,” she said softly to herself._

_\--_

_I am so fucking done,_ he grumbled to himself as he jogged past the power plant, a huge, hulking relic of a place that looked straight out of an old horror movie. Of course it was a nuclear fucking reactor. Why would it be anything else? It was stained and grey, but still looked like it might be functioning; thick, grey smoke plumed into the still air in heavy waves, and warning lights flashed on various places outside it. He could faintly hear a siren wailing, long and loud and immediately annoying.

He swung viciously at a mutt who dared to get in his path, snarling. They weren’t particularly dangerous, just numerous- and _disgusting,_ of course. He winced as suspiciously yellow goo hit his boot from the creature, shaking it off in irritation and hurrying onwards. Surely there had to be _something_ else in this Arena. Something less…gooey.

 _Using humour to distract yourself?_ the irritatingly sober voice in his head said. He ignored it and stepped off the concrete onto a sandy stretch of reddish dirt.

Another fence ran alongside him, still chain link, but this one hummed with electricity. _Obviously._ He shrugged, peering through it but seeing nothing through the foliage, and started to follow it in resignation, occasionally glancing behind him and seeing no mutts following close enough to bother him. It was starting to get dark now, the sun sinking towards the horizon- both obviously artificial, of course. Haymitch had no real way of knowing if the days were even going to be twenty-four hours here.

 

He had been tramping along the fence line for perhaps an hour when the sky darkened suddenly, quite considerably, and stars appeared overhead.  And then the cannon shots began, and he turned to look at the sky almost involuntarily. Eleven people had died, presumably in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Neither the woman he vaguely remembered or Delaine were among them, though, and he watched impassively as their faces flashed by one at a time. He wondered vaguely if their Escorts were watching when they died, like he had always had to- at least at first. In the later years, he had gotten himself deliberately unconscious as quickly as possible, wanting to see absolutely nothing of the deaths he felt responsible for.

After the announcements, darkness fell completely, going from twilight to almost total darkness in moments. Swearing, Haymitch rummaged for his flashlight and turned it on, wary of using too much battery life. _I should probably get a couple hours sleep,_ he thought dubiously, swinging the light around. There was a car on the dirt near him; a husk, really, everything inside stripped out, no wheels or seats or even windows; but it was dry and sheltered and it gave him a sense of safety, even if it _was_ false _._ A quick sweep of the light showed no mutts anywhere in his radius- and in fact, he hadn’t heard any for about half an hour- so he opened the door, clambered inside, and curled up as best he could, using the backpack as a pillow.

_A few hours. Water, tomorrow._

_ _

 

**Here's the next piece of the map, folks!**


	16. Chapter 16

 

He awoke with a jolt and stayed still and silent for a long moment, holding his breath. It was just starting to get light; it was time to move on, but he had thought he’d heard something. Shuffling.

Lifting his head minutely, he peered over the edge of the car window and glanced around. There. Mutts, shambling towards him, their pink bodies glistening wetly in the dawn light. With a groan and a curse, he clambered out of the shell of the car, gathered his backpack and his axe, and set off at a slow trot back towards the fenceline. His stomach growled painfully but he waited until he’d left the mutts far behind before slowing his pace enough to think about food or water. He had to get through the fence somehow, and out of this area. It was fast becoming apparent that there was nothing safe to eat or drink here, and he didn’t dare risk the buildings to check for anything useful.

 

_What was that?_

 

A gap in the fence. Small and partially hidden by the foliage from the other side, but Haymitch thought it might be useable. He dropped to his knees, digging at the dirt underneath it, widening it and swearing under his breath as the sweat dripped down his neck and the mutts came inexorably closer. “Come on, come on,” he grunted, shoving his axe into the growing gap and dragging out piles of earth with every pull. He didn’t dare look around, not wanting to deal with the closing distance behind him and the mutts, and instead worked solidly until the hole was wide enough for him to thrust his pack, his axe, and finally himself through it, squirming and swearing some more as he almost got himself stuck half way. _If Effie’s watching this, I hope she doesn’t try and put me on some stupid new fucking diet when I get back,_ he thought in irritation. With a painful shove of his legs, he squeezed through and blocked the hole as best he could from the other side before working his way through the thick brush and trees that ringed the fence.

_What fresh horror do we have on the menu today?_

Haymitch scowled at his inner voice and sighed, surveying the new area with trepidation and a steady weariness that he was beginning to think he’d been born with.

 _Well, there’s water,_ he thought with unamused bitterness. Water there was- but if it was anything other than saltwater, Haymitch would be very surprised; the new section he had found himself in was nothing more than a series of beaches connected by thin rope bridges over blue, shining seas.

_Fucking great._

He scanned the sands, seeing nothing but what looked like reddish-hued rocks poking above the golden expanses at various intervals. Squinting far across, he thought he could make out the fence that bordered this section. The mutts were behind him, the seas before him, and Haymitch was unimpressed. Saliva coated his tongue as he looked again at the waves lapping over the beach. With no immediate threat, the need for water became overpowering, and he hunkered down beside the waves, pulling the canister and a water purifying tablet out of his pack. He had no idea if it would desalinate the seawater, but it was about as good an idea as he had, and so he dipped the canister into the sea cautiously, filling it and dropping in the tablet before closing the lid and waiting.

 

The waiting was _unbearable._ Each moment that passed, Haymitch was aware of the water – so close to him, right there in that little flask, and utterly undrinkable. His throat ached for one swallow of it, and several times he caught himself reaching out towards the canister before he had realised.

 

He distracted himself by wondering where Delaine was. To a lesser extent, there was that other woman to think of, as well- he hadn’t seen _anyone_ since the beginning, let alone anyone he recognised. He knew they had been alive as of last night, but that was all.

 _It’s better this way,_ he thought grimly. _You’ll only have to kill them if you want to get back to Effie._

Effie.

His chest ached as he thought of her, his eyes lifting to the sky automatically, wondering if she could see him, if she was willing him on. He hoped she had been left alone, that no one had hurt her. He didn’t know if he wanted her to be watching him or not, the comfort he felt thinking of her close to him almost outweighed by the knowledge that it was very likely she would have to watch him die a messy and lonely death. Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face and glanced askance at the canister.

_Surely._

 

The first swallow- tentative, exploratory- was the most excruciating few seconds he could recall. Would it be drinkable? Would it be another bitter disappointment?

 

It was good. He drained the canister in three long, agonising gulps, the slight chemical aftertaste of the tablet doing nothing to convince him that this was not the most wonderful drink ever- better than whiskey, better than beer, better than any champagne known to man. He sat delirious and drunk on it for a few moments after it was gone, swiping a finger into the metal container to grab the last few droplets of liquid. His stomach felt distended and pleasantly sloshy, and he grinned at the tight feeling of it before filling the canister again, repeating the dropping of the tablet ( _two left),_  and packing it away in his bag for later to resist the temptation to down another.

 

He got to his feet feeling decidedly more cheerful, and turned his mind towards food.

There was no fruit visible on any of the trees ringing this section, and he had nothing to fish with- assuming there were fish in the sea that wouldn’t just kill him anyway.  Shrugging on his pack, he headed off towards the distant fence, his boots digging into the sand with each step and making his trek a struggle.

 

He had crossed three beaches before he realised that something was very wrong with the sea.

 

It had stopped ebbing and flowing, the reassuring noise of the waves crashing on the beach gone. Instead, the sea just hadn’t stopped, and the patches of golden beach were getting decidedly smaller with each passing minute, the water rising at an alarmingly fast rate.

“Shit,” he said, an understatement, and began to run towards the next bridge, weighed down by his pack and the shifting, soft sands. The water was lapping at the toes of his boots by the time he hit the beach after the next bridge, and Haymitch was beginning to panic, wondering just how far the water was going to rise. If he knew the Hunger Games, it wouldn’t stop at tickling his ankles.

He ploughed on regardless, grim-faced. If he could make it to the next lot of trees, perhaps he could climb one and get some high ground. H

He almost made it, too- the treeline was within a hundred metres when the sudden roaring of the sea behind him made him freeze in terror for a long moment, looking around to see a tidal wave of unfathomably huge proportions bearing down on him. _Too fast,_ he thought, taking a last gasping, huge lungful of air in as the sea swept him under with the wave, tossing him like flotsam and sucking him down towards the sands in a churning undertow.

 

 

_Effie_

_She had barely slept- and what she had managed had been curled up uncomfortably in a chair in front of the screens while he slept in the shell of the car. She awoke periodically, jolting into sudden, terrified alertness and scanning the cameras to make sure he was still safe, still sleeping, still alive. His rhythmic breathing, just visible on the night vision cameras, was comforting, but it made her feel so terribly alone and afraid for him, that movement the reminder of how fragile his body really was, how easily he could be lost to her- she pushed back the thoughts, smiling gratefully as Roux brought her coffee and stood silently next to her for a few minutes. They were too exhausted to speak, but she took solace in his presence. His hair was flat and greasy looking, his eyes ringed by dark shadows, and she knew she looked just as bad. There had been a time where that would have seemed like the most terrible thing to happen to her in her life._

_She watched as Haymitch moved on, watched as he found the hole and dug his way through. She wondered if he would agree to losing a few pounds, idly thinking for a few minutes about a diet she had read about that involved a lot of seaweed powder, but was distracted by his searching gaze up into the sky- directly into one of the cameras, though he couldn’t know it. She touched her hand to the screen, tracing her fingertips over his face, lined and tired and dear to her for all of its imperfections, and wished for the chance to tell him how beautiful he was._

_This time, she couldn’t suppress the warning scream that welled up from inside her. She clamped her hands to her mouth, shaking silently as she watched the wave come rushing up behind him, helpless to do anything other than watch and hope and will herself not to look away. She had to watch, had to be strong for him. He had sacrificed everything for her; the least she could do was not be a stupid coward. She owed him that much._

_The water took him for its own, and she lost sight of him, her gut roiling and churning like the sea itself, her hands white-knuckled and shaking violently, wringing together as she scanned the water, hoping desperately to see his head come bobbing up, to see his hand reach out and grab onto one of those trees. He had been so close, surely he had to be there, he couldn’t have been killed by something so trivial as water, not now, not after everything-_

_But she saw nothing, and for what felt like the longest minute of her life, she watched as the water slowly became still and flat once more, all beaches and bridges lost somewhere underneath its shining, glassy surface. It looked utterly still. But this was District 4, and if she had learned one thing while working on the Hunger Games, it was that there **had** to be fish in there. The Gamemakers wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity for that kind of humour. They loved turning everything back against you if they could._


End file.
